


The Wings of Time

by RogueTranslator



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Overcoming) Toxic Masculinity, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Broken Wings, Canon Universe, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Coming Out, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Dreams and Nightmares, Falling In Love, Family, Father-Son Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Invasion of Privacy, Jack Kline Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Love, Love Confessions, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Memory Related, Pining, Post-Canon, Restored Wings, Romance, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 15, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 116,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22066594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueTranslator/pseuds/RogueTranslator
Summary: Dean and Castiel, now there’s a romance for the ages. I never saw it coming, even though I probably should have. Sometimes your characters just take on minds of their own.It starts with an angel pulling a broken man from perdition. The man has nightmares of Hell, and the angel decides he wants to help him. So, he starts visiting him in his dreams. He says it’s pure altruism, but it’s really because he’s falling in love with the man and doesn’t know it yet. The angel realizes, though, eventually. He makes a choice. And that choice changes everything.Eleven years later, he finally tells the man the truth. More choices. More stakes. Big stuff happens. It’s my first romance novel, so I’m coloring in the lines.What follows isn’t an original work. They’re my creations, but I’m really just a recording device; a Dictaphone. They wrote their own story.“Fan fiction?” Amara said, from the other side of the bars. “That’s what you called me here for?”Chuck pulled the sheet from the typewriter and waved it at her. “Fan fiction is real literature!”“Oh, brother.” She turned to walk away. “I have a beach to get back to.”
Relationships: Balthazar & Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel & Anna Milton, Castiel & Jack Kline, Castiel & Jimmy Novak (Supernatural), Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 192
Kudos: 277





	1. Peaceful Easy Feeling

The road from Tucumcari to Santa Fe was a gentle climb, rising from the Llano Estacado’s dry grassland into the juniper and sagebrush of the Sangre de Cristo foothills. The sharp morning air was chilly for October; the dawn under the flat eastern horizon glowed the scrub pink. On the radio, the local classic rock station was playing number 216 of the 500 Greatest Songs of All Time, “Peaceful Easy Feeling.”

“I can go for some Eagles.” Even though he was alone in the Impala, Dean said it bashfully, twisted the volume dial with a jaunty flick of his wrist and a guilty smile.

 _And I want to sleep with you in the desert night / with a billion stars all around_ , Glenn Frey crooned.

“Museums and historic sites, next five exits.” Dean read the sign beside the freeway and glanced at the passenger seat. Sammy would love that; he’d probably spend the entire weekend meandering through “museums and historic sites” if he were here, just for kicks. Dean didn’t get the appeal. To him, places filled with old things meant spirits, pagan gods, or worse.

Where was Sam, anyway?

Dean squinted his eyes at the lines of the highway and scratched his temple. After a few initial seconds of panic, a sense of tranquility suffused through him, seemingly out of nowhere. It was the golden, buoyant feeling that all was right in the world. He usually only felt this way when he was drunk.

Maybe he had to take care of something on his own, Dean thought. Wherever Sam was, he was fine. There was no way Dean would have let him out of his sight if he’d had any reason to be concerned.

The low adobe buildings of Santa Fe grew thicker around him as he drove down the Old Pecos Trail. On the passenger side of the road, through the spindly arms of the mesquite and hackberry trees, the sun had risen over the southern slope of Atalaya Mountain.

 _I’m making good time_ , Dean thought, after glancing at his watch. It was 7:20. He’d probably make it to the church at half past seven on the dot. Someone was waiting for him there.

“I get this feeling I may know you as a lover and a friend,” Dean belted out, glad that Sam wasn’t there to scowl at his singing. The desert wind ruffled his hair as the light at the Paseo de Peralta turned green.

It was Saturday, so there was barely any traffic, even in the center of the old city. Dean parallel parked right in front of the cathedral and stretched at the side of the car, then walked up the steps to the forecourt.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean started and looked to his right. Castiel was sitting on one of the rust-colored benches, staring at him inquisitively. He was twenty feet away and had spoken barely louder than a whisper, but his deep, gravelly voice had been clear, unmistakable.

“Cass.” Dean’s hands tensed in his pockets. “You’re who I was meeting? And at a church, no less. Talk about on the nose.”

Castiel stood up and began walking towards him. “Why shouldn’t we meet at a house of God?”

“Oh, great.” Dean watched Castiel’s approach and clenched his jaw.

“What’s wrong?”

“Alright, just lay it on me.”

Castiel stopped inches away from his face and peered up into his eyes. “Lay…what on you?”

“Look,” Dean said, disconcerted by the angel’s violation of his personal space. “If some nasty shit’s going down, just come out with it so we can get a move on. Skip the foreplay.”

“Dean, that isn’t—”

“Is it Sam?” Dean interjected. His brother’s absence made sense now. “Has he been kidnapped?”

“Sam is fine.” Castiel touched his fingers lightly to the side of Dean’s face.

“Fine,” Dean repeated, feeling that same golden sense of calm from before. “Sam’s fine.”

Castiel perambulated to the front of the statue of Saint Francis and stared up. His azure eyes and pale skin glowed in the sunrise.

“Why did you want to meet, then?” Dean said, following Castiel.

“For breakfast.”

“Brea—Breakfast?”

“Breakfast,” Castiel repeated. “The first meal of the day. And the most important one, I’m led to believe.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You eat?”

“No. But you do.” Castiel brushed past Dean and started jogging down the stairs, back to the sidewalk.

“You son of a bitch.” Dean spun around and walked after him. “You woke me up at 4:30 and made me drive halfway across New Mexico to have breakfast?”

Castiel turned to him at the side of the Impala. “You like the food here.”

“You know what I also like? Sleep.” Dean sighed and fished his keychain out of his jeans. “I can’t believe this. Alright, let’s go.”

“You can put those away.” Castiel nodded towards Dean’s keys. “There’s a restaurant you love here, just off the plaza. We’ll walk to it.”

“Okay,” Dean said slowly. “I think I know the one you mean, now that you mention it. But how did you know about it?”

Castiel crossed the street without responding. Dean quirked an eyebrow and jogged after him.

“Cass,” Dean said, once he’d caught up with him. Castiel weaved to the side to avoid a ristra of red chiles, causing him and Dean to bump into each other.

“Apologies.” Castiel resumed walking.

“Cass, slow down, will you?”

“Are you injured?” He turned to Dean as they reached the corner.

Dean frowned. “No.”

“Then—” Castiel stared at him blankly. “You shouldn’t have any trouble matching my pace.”

“Is everything alright, Cass? You seem, I don’t know, nervous or something.”

“I don’t get nervous,” Castiel deadpanned.

“Right.” Dean snorted. “Could’ve fooled me. Asking to meet without saying why, walking ahead of me like a wasp stung your ass, not answering my questions: it’s like you’re a high school chick with a crush for the first time.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and started walking across the plaza.

“Well, you may not get nervous, but you definitely get annoyed,” Dean muttered.

“If I’m annoyed, it’s because of your incessant need to complain, even when the circumstances are hardly adverse. It’s just breakfast.”

“What can I say, it’s a talent.” Dean traced his fingers along the circumference of the plaza’s fountain. “As for adverse circumstances—you never know, there might be demons nearby. That’d be just my luck.”

Castiel stopped at the intersection, waiting for a minivan to turn. “There aren’t. I smote two of them behind the basilica before you arrived, and I don’t sense any others in the city.”

“Wow.” Dean gulped. “Okay then.”

They approached the heavy pine threshold of the Café Sonámbulo. Castiel opened the door for him and inclined his head.

“How chivalrous,” Dean quipped. He cleared his throat, shook his head at Castiel’s impassive reaction, and climbed the few steps into the entryway.

“ _Buenos días, señores,_ ” said the server.

“Table for two,” Dean replied. They followed her to the corner of the restaurant and sat down in a booth next to an open window. Despite it being just before eight on a weekend morning, the place was about half full.

As Dean perused the menu, he caught Castiel observing him in his peripheral vision. When he glanced up, Castiel smiled faintly and continued looking at him.

“Why not take a picture, Cass?” Dean said gruffly.

Castiel blinked. “But I can watch you whenever I like.”

“Yeah, that’s not disturbing at all.” Dean handed him one of the menus. “Look at this, will you? You’re going to bore a hole in me eventually with all the staring.”

“I won’t,” Castiel protested, but flipped open the menu anyway. “I have no motivation to do you harm, Dean.”

Dean twitched in exasperation. “Can’t the poor bastard whose body you’ve commandeered teach you about idioms, Cass? It’s impossible to have a normal conversation with you.”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel dropped his eyes to his menu.

“It’s alright, just—” Dean was cut off by the waiter arriving with water and a carafe of coffee.

“Ready to order?”

“Yeah, I’ll have the smothered breakfast burrito with bacon and green chile.” Dean closed his menu and handed it to the server, who turned to Castiel expectantly.

“Nothing for me,” Castiel said flatly, and pushed the menu across the table.

“He’s on a diet,” Dean explained. The waiter raised her eyebrows by the tiniest fraction and walked to the kitchen. Dean returned his gaze to Castiel and exhaled.

“Are you happy to be here, Dean? This is your favorite eatery in the state.”

“Yeah, which you know how?”

“I saw it in your mind.”

Dean chewed his lip and nodded. “Alright, that’s it. What the hell’s actually going on here, Cass? If that’s really who you are.”

Castiel furrowed his brow. “You doubt that I am me?”

“The Cass I know doesn’t have time for breakfast. He doesn’t give a crap about my ‘favorite eatery.’ And he certainly doesn’t—"

“You _don’t_ know me,” Castiel interrupted. His voice vibrated with irritation.

Dean winced. “Okay, geez.”

“Trust me, this…excursion is not endangering my mission.”

“So, they’ve got you on shore leave.” Dean glanced up at the server as she laid his burrito down in front of him. “Why on earth—or in heaven, whatever—would you choose to spend it with me?”

Castiel’s gaze flicked to Dean’s shoulder, then returned to his face.

“Huh?” Dean picked up his knife and fork and cocked his head, waiting for an answer.

“I have time before I must receive my next revelation. I am free to attend to…miscellaneous affairs in the interstice.”

“You know what I think? I think that those are a lot of ten-dollar words that mean nothing. Answer the question. What are we really doing here, Cass?”

“Eat your breakfast, Dean.” Castiel craned his neck forward, his eyes daring Dean to disobey. The volume of the café radio abruptly cranked higher, drowning out the chatter of the other patrons.

Dean blinked and sawed into his burrito, prepared to acquiesce. For some reason, when Castiel put his foot down, Dean felt compelled to heed him. The only other man who’d been able to do that had been his father. He squinted down at his plate, confused by the effect Castiel had on him.

 _I get this feeling I may know you / As a lover and a friend_ , blared the radio.

“Wait.” Dean lowered the first bite of his burrito and looked up at the speaker. “’Peaceful Easy Feeling?’ Number 216 of the 500 Greatest Songs of All Time, according to KHNU, the ‘Southwest’s Best Classic Rock Station?’”

Castiel tilted his head, his expression inscrutable. “You like this song. It calms you. Though, for some reason, you also feel a tiny bit of embarrassment about that.”

“Most of the time,” Dean agreed. He readied his hand and tensed the muscles in his legs, then sprung up and grabbed Castiel by the knot of his tie. “Just not when I heard it an hour ago on the same station, on the same countdown, dammit!”

“Dean.” Castiel swallowed and touched his fingers lightly to Dean’s hand.

“Tell me what the hell you’ve done with the real Cass, you demonic bastard. Or I’ll gank you right here.”

Castiel sighed; the colors and sounds of the Café Sonámbulo swirled and faded around them. With a small gasp, Dean opened his eyes to the darkness of the motel room, the watery amber light of the vacancy sign in the parking lot.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean started and sat up. Castiel was sitting at the foot of his bed, silhouetted by the half-light that came through the blinds.

“My facsimile was not accurate enough. You’re an astoundingly perceptive human. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“What?” Dean threw off the covers and swung his feet to the ground. “Where the hell are we?”

“Carthage, Missouri.”

Dean rubbed his face, then turned to look at Castiel along the line of the mattress. “What the hell happened to New Mexico?”

“You were dreaming. It was a…dream that I created for you.”

“It was so lifelike.” Dean hung his head; he could still taste the warm sting of the salsa, smell the bitter richness of the coffee.

“Evidently, not enough.” Castiel turned towards him, his palms upturned on his knees apologetically.

“So.” Dean snorted and narrowed his eyes at Castiel. “Any particular reason you decided to invade my mind in my sleep, or is that just how you get your kicks?”

“I did not—” Castiel took a deep breath. “You were having nightmares again. I thought that I would…aid you.”

“Aid me?”

“By touching your forehead and delivering you to a different dreamworld. A much happier one. One where you could slumber restfully. I thought—”

“You thought?”

“I thought you would be happy.”

“Happy?” Dean stood up and put his hands on his hips. “Don’t you get it, Cass? I don’t deserve to be happy. You know what I did. You know the kind of person I really am. I don’t get to be happy or content, not even in my dreams. What I _deserve_ is to be visited by those nightmares every single time I close my eyes.”

“No, Dean.” Castiel rose and approached him; Dean gulped, watching his movements apprehensively. “There is ever the hope of forgiveness. Of redemption. God’s grace is always open to those—”

“Look, you can save the Sunday school mumbo jumbo, okay? It’s all wishful thinking.”

“Enough!” Castiel boomed. Dean flinched and took a step backwards, hitting the back of his knees against the nightstand. “Perhaps I overstepped my bounds by entering your dreams, but don’t presume to educate me about my father.”

Dean averted his eyes to Sam’s empty bed, wishing he were there to defuse the confrontation.

“Sam’s fine,” Castiel said, his voice back to its normal volume. “He’s walking around the perimeter of the motel, talking on the phone.”

“Look, Cass.” Dean looked up again; unsurprisingly, Castiel had moved even closer. “I appreciate that you tried to help me, but isn’t there something more important you could be doing with your time? You know, innocent people to save? Demons to hunt down?”

Castiel’s gaze flicked between Dean’s eyes and lips. “In the realm of dreams, a few dozen seconds can unspool into an entire day and night. I have been here, in this room, for only seven minutes. Including the time we’ve spent talking after you awoke.”

“Cass,” Dean said softly. Castiel stroked his fingertips over the mark on Dean’s shoulder, his deep blue eyes following the outline of his handprint. Dean suddenly felt irresolute.

 _What’s the harm?_ asked part of Dean’s mind. _An angel wants to get rid of your nightmares. He thinks you’re worth saving._

 _What’s the point?_ asked another, more familiar part. _Why me?_

“So, what,” Dean said, leaning away from Castiel’s touch. “You’re just going to swoop in every night while I’m asleep from now on, molest my face, make all my bad dreams go away and feed me burritos?”

“Not every evening.” Castiel glanced out the motel window. “Some nights, I’ll be occupied. I will only come to you if nothing else demands my attention.”

“Gee, thanks,” Dean said sarcastically.

Castiel’s eyes snapped up to the ceiling. “If that’s unsatisfactory to you, I don’t have to come at all. There are other things I could be doing.”

“No!” Dean blurted out. Castiel turned back to him. “I mean, I don’t mind if you visit sometimes.”

Castiel nodded, but otherwise showed no other acknowledgement of his victory.

“To tell you the truth—these nightmares, man, they’re horrible. I already don’t get much sleep, and what sleep I do get, they ruin. Eventually, it might affect my hunting.” Dean sat down on the bed and looked up at Castiel. “That might be reason enough for me to accept your help. I can’t help people if I’m falling asleep on my feet.”

Castiel pursed his lips and closed his eyes for several seconds.

“What? What is it? What’d I say?”

“I have to go,” Castiel said, walking to the middle of the room. “I’m being called.”

“Okay.” Dean rubbed the side of his head and blinked at Castiel’s back. “Well, see you later.”

Castiel looked down, seeming to hesitate.

“Actually, Cass?”

“What is it?”

“What—what happened to ‘I’m not here to perch on your shoulder?’ Huh?”

Castiel turned his head just enough for his profile to be visible in the yellow glow of the motel sign. By the slight movement of his lips and cheeks and eyelashes, Dean guessed that he was smiling.

Then, with a quiver of the room’s stagnant air, he was gone.


	2. Another One Bites the Dust

Castiel relaxed his grip, letting the cardinal’s corpulent body fall to the marble tiles. The scarlet robes of his office pooled around his crumpled form like a lake of blood.

“It is done.” Castiel cleaned his hand and turned to Uriel. “Dispose of the empty vessels.”

Uriel glanced up from the corpses and simpered. “You don’t feel like assisting me?”

“No.”

“Lighten up, Castiel.” Uriel ambled across the Pantheon’s rotunda, the clicks of his patent leather Oxfords echoing in the sulfurous air. “We won. It’s cause for jubilation.”

“This temple has been profaned. Demons possessed pious men and forced them to kill. Now those men are dead.” Castiel shook his head. “I see no reason to celebrate.”

“The seal was saved. Who cares that a few apes were collateral damage when we’re talking about the fate of the entire world?”

Castiel avoided Uriel’s gaze. “Take the bodies away. The others won’t be able to keep people out of here for much longer without raising suspicion.”

Uriel sighed and vanished with the cadavers of the cardinal and the archbishop. Castiel glanced around to make sure that he was alone, then walked forward into the oculus’s shaft of light and stared up.

“Father.” He said it out loud, and his voice quavered. “I’m sorry. I wish I had been faster.”

As always, the light was silent.

Castiel closed his eyes and redirected his thoughts to Dean. He arrived at a motel room outside Louisville, Kentucky seconds later. Sam was in the other bed, so Castiel leaned over and tapped his fingertips to the side of his head, sending him into a deep and uninterruptible sleep. Then, he sat down slowly beside Dean’s waist and listened to the faint, chalky hum of his teeth grinding. Dean’s hand trembled beside Castiel’s hip, no doubt busy with the work of keeping at bay one of Hell’s abominations. Castiel reached up and gently wiped the beads of sweat from Dean’s brow, then pressed his palm into his temple.

“Let’s go,” Castiel said. He grabbed Dean by the wrist and yanked him through the narrow door he’d created between damnation and Santa Fe.

The two of them tumbled gracelessly, landing in a pile next to the threshold of the Café Sonámbulo.

“ _Buenos días, señores_ ,” said the server.

“Cass,” Dean gasped. He stared up, his eyes wide and filled with tears.

“I am here.” Castiel stroked the line of Dean’s jaw with his free hand.

Dean screwed his eyes shut and swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Table for two?” prompted the server.

“Give us a minute,” Castiel snapped. He rose to his feet, helping Dean up with him. Dean stumbled and gripped Castiel’s forearm.

“So, you fluffy-feathered son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, his voice hoarse. “Finally decided to show?”

“I told you that I would only come when I am not needed elsewhere.”

“It’s been days,” Dean retorted, without much conviction.

Castiel turned to the server. “Table for two.”

They made their way to the booth in the corner from a few mornings before, Dean straightening up and pulling away from Castiel by degrees as they walked.

“How…have you been?” Castiel asked, after the server had laid down cups of water and coffee and departed.

Dean chuckled behind his menu. “Oh, you know. Just peachy. Picking up the slack for all the dead hunters is a great time, but you know what’s more fun? Reliving Hell every night.”

Castiel scowled and let out a sharp breath through his nose.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbled, glancing up for a split-second. “I, uh, I mean, thanks—”

Castiel nodded. “You are grateful, but too proud to say so.”

“No,” Dean replied, but he averted his eyes.

For a while, Castiel pondered Dean’s reaction. Even though they were sitting together at a table in Dean’s mind, even though Dean surely knew that Castiel could sense all of his emotions when they were as intimately joined as they were in the waking world at this moment, he persisted in his attempts to dissemble. What was the reason?

The server came to take their orders. Castiel ordered nothing again, but she was expecting it this time.

“So.” Dean watched Castiel warily. “Where _have_ you been?”

“Rome.”

“Rome? Like, _the_ Rome?”

“The one in Italy, yes.”

“What the hell were you doing all the way over there? Taking a little Roman holiday?”

By the way Dean’s lip curled, Castiel assumed this was meant as a joke.

“Never mind.” Dean rolled his eyes.

“I was not there for pleasure, Dean. A seal was under siege.”

“Right.” Dean sipped his coffee. “Did you save it?

“Yes.”

Dean shrugged. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“It is,” Castiel responded, his voice trailing off.

“Why not crack a smile, then?”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “Would that make you feel better?”

“Me?” Dean looked up as their food arrived. “No, not me. You.”

“I’m not following.”

“Forget it, Chuckles.” Dean leaned forward and sliced into his huevos rancheros.

“We saved the seal,” Castiel said, after a while. “But several innocents perished. It would not be right for me to rejoice.”

“You, getting broken up over a few humans dying?” Dean speared the yolk of one of the eggs and gave Castiel a mordant sneer. “Where’s the real Cass?”

“Let me ask you something, Dean. If I’m really as callous and unfeeling as you think me, why am I here?”

“Because—” Dean gulped down a bite, his eyes darting here and there as he came up with a response. “I don’t know, maybe you just like touching me in my sleep.”

Castiel sighed and looked out the window. It was later in the morning than it had been on their last visit, and there were correspondingly more cars and tourists in the adjacent intersection.

“I’m just kidding,” Dean said, through a mouthful of food. “Little tip, Chuckles: being deathly serious all the time makes you an easy target for teasing.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Of course you don’t.” Dean shifted in his seat and paused. “Hey, Cass, change of subject. Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Er—so, I’m wondering. And you better keep this between us.”

Castiel nodded slowly.

“Thing is, I noticed my body is different from before.”

“Different,” Castiel repeated.

“All my scars are gone, for one. And I’m pretty sure every one of my bones is as smooth and straight as when I was thirteen.” Dean tapped his index finger to his face. “Until one of those ghosts kicked my teeth in a few weeks back, I didn’t even have a broken nose!”

“Ah. When I raised you, I restored your body impeccably. You are…intact in every way.”

“Yeah, you got that right. I have a freaking foreskin now!”

Castiel blinked. “Did you not have one before?”

“No, it was snipped at the hospital when I was born.” Dean closed his eyes and sat back. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

“Dean. Is there a point to all this?”

“No. Maybe?” Dean looked down at his groin. “Actually, whether I had a point or not, I don’t think I want to talk about any of this anymore.”

“Not that any of them would care,” Castiel said, as the waiter returned to fill up Dean’s coffee. “But you should know that it’s possible for certain other angels to hear what you tell me here.”

“What?” Dean’s eyes darted up. “And you’re telling me this now?”

Castiel shrugged. “They would have to be intentionally listening in. I doubt any of my siblings would do that.”

“You’re the only one watching over me?”

“I’d assume so. Our numbers are limited enough as is without doubling up on charges.”

Dean shook his head, ate the last few bites of his breakfast, washed them down with coffee. “What do you say we get out of here?”

“And go where?”

“I don’t know.” Dean leaned along the booth and peered out the window; his eyes glistened sea-green in the midmorning sun. “We could jump in the car, go for a drive.”

Castiel reached under the table and took hold of Dean’s hand. With a rustling of their coats, they were sitting in the Impala, still parked where Dean had left it in the shadow of the cathedral.

“Whoa.” Dean twisted around in his seat, getting his bearings. “That felt weird.”

“It would feel much more unsettling in the real world.” Castiel reclined into the upholstery and smiled at Dean’s flustered reaction.

“Oh, fucking hell,” Dean said. He threw open the door and grabbed the stack of papers that had been tucked beneath the windshield wiper. “Parking tickets, Cass? You can cook up an entire pretend universe in my head, but you can’t get rid of meter maids?”

“Dean, the dreamworld I created is verisimilitudinous by design.”

“Come again?”

“I wanted it to seem real.” Castiel inclined his chin towards Dean’s hand. “So that you wouldn’t wake up too soon. Or return to the nightmare.”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry.” Dean wadded up the tickets and tossed them into the back seat. “You nailed the realism. Put on your seat belt.”

They drove out, riding the Paseo De Peralta in a tight circuit of the old city. Castiel rolled down his window and watched the languid traffic, the swirling piñon needles in the parched air, the soughing branches of the desert willows.

“You ever been to Santa Fe, Cass?” Dean turned down the classic rock countdown. “Other than now, I mean.”

“Yes. It has changed a great deal since the last time I was here.”

“When was the last time?”

“Over two thousand years ago. The people here were…different back then. Though their dwellings were similar.”

Dean whistled. “Goddamn. Anyone ever told you that you look good for your age?”

“This is only a vessel. My true visage—”

“Yeah, I know, Chuckles. Never mind.”

Castiel rested his elbow on the windowsill and tilted his face to the wind. Dean took a right onto a wider road, leaned on the accelerator, upped the volume on the radio to match.

“Dean,” said Castiel, once the skyline of Santa Fe was a dull murmur on the horizon. “Where are we going?”

Dean cleared his throat. “North,” he replied, and nothing else. They drove and drove for what seemed like a hundred miles, until Castiel stood up from the mattress, graced his fingers over the mark on Dean’s shoulder, and went to the voice that was calling to him.

* * *

“Castiel.” Uriel gestured to the other end of the bench he was sitting on. “I’m glad you came so quickly.”

“Of course I came.” Castiel thrust his hands into his pockets and remained standing. “What is it?”

“Zachariah is pleased with our work in Rome. We may yet preserve a sufficient number of seals.”

“Of course we will,” Castiel said impatiently. “You called me here to tell me this?”

Uriel pressed his fingertips together in his lap and gave Castiel an inscrutable look. “What were you doing that was so important?”

“That isn’t your concern, Uriel. What do you need me for?”

“Another seal will soon come under threat. It’s in Haiti.”

“Already,” Castiel murmured. He pitched forward on the balls of his feet. “How do you know this?”

“Zachariah told me just now.” Uriel rose and began to pace back and forth in front of the park bench. “He mentioned that you were otherwise engaged, asked me to pass on his revelation.”

“Very well.” Castiel looked down at his feet, his thoughts returning to the motel room in Kentucky and Dean’s slumbering form.

“Brother,” Uriel ventured. “You seem preoccupied. Is something troubling you?”

“No,” he said reflexively.

“Castiel.”

“I—” Castiel sighed. “It’s Dean Winchester. I’m concerned for him.”

“Ah.” Uriel stopped pacing. “Don’t worry. He’ll play his part, when the time comes.”

Castiel shook his head and turned his back to Uriel. “That isn’t what I meant.”

The night was unnaturally silent for several long seconds. Castiel peered up at the boughs of the longleaf pines along the park’s footpath, trying to make out the stars behind them.

“Are you feeling emotions, brother?”

Castiel shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He’d known that question was coming.

“I see,” Uriel continued, even though Castiel hadn’t said anything. “Don’t get attached to him, Castiel. You know why.”

“Haiti,” Castiel replied, pivoting on his heel. “I am ready.”

“That’s the spirit.” Uriel grinned, his schadenfreude on full display. “Several of the others are already there; let us depart.” He flapped his wings and was gone.

Castiel contemplated the cold stone of the park bench for several seconds, then readied himself to follow Uriel to Cap-Haïtien. Just before he flew away, the first songbird chirped for the impending dawn. Castiel hearkened to it, a faint smile playing over his lips, and thought about the endless sky of New Mexico: how the horizon stretched on and on as if daring a pursuit; how the sun seemed brighter there than anywhere else in the world.

* * *

“Dean,” Castiel said, once they were in the Impala again.

“Cass?” Dean’s hands twitched on the steering wheel; the car swerved onto the rumble strip, then back into the lane.

“It’s okay.” Castiel ghosted his fingertips along Dean’s wrist, and Dean relaxed into his seat. “I’m back now.”

“Back?” Dean glanced at him. Notwithstanding Castiel’s pacifying touch, the fear and torment had not yet fully drained from his eyes. “Thanks for leaving me without any warning last time, you overgrown turkey. I went straight from this car to Alastair’s rack that night.”

Castiel tipped his head back and sighed. “We’ve been over this, Dean. I was called.”

“So that’s what happens when you go? The nightmares come back right away, and worse than before?”

“I’m not sure. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Helpful.”

“Dean.” Castiel waited until Dean made eye contact with him. “I can hear, feel your mind no matter where I am. But if I have to leave, it means that another circumstance requires my immediate and undivided attention. I thought you understood that.”

“So, in other words, you could leave me up shit creek at any moment.”

“Essentially, yes. That is what it means.” Castiel looked at his reflection in the window. “I have other responsibilities. Other battles. Other charges.”

Dean shrugged and turned on the radio.

“You could ask me how I’m doing,” Castiel said, with a hint of bile.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Dean flashed him a smile that was equal parts heartfelt and sarcastic. “How was your day, honey?”

“I…failed to prevent the breaking of a seal,” Castiel answered, choosing to ignore Dean’s attempt at humor.

“Another one bites the dust, huh?”

“I was in Haiti, at the site of a former sugar plantation. Unspeakable atrocities were perpetrated on that ground in the slaveholding days. The density of spirits and demons was overwhelming.” Castiel paused and looked up at the roof of the car. “There was nothing I could do to save the seal, Dean.”

Dean listened, his face hardening with indignation as Castiel finished speaking.

“Haven’t your bosses heard of backup? What about a plan of attack? Or contingency plans, for that matter?”

“I assure you, they’ve heard of all those things.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Dean glanced over at him. “Look, Cass. I’m not mad at you—”

“For once.”

“For once,” Dean agreed, and grinned radiantly. “Aw, Chuckles made his first joke!”

“Continue with what you were saying,” Castiel said flatly.

“I’m not mad at you, I’m mad for you. Look, they’ve got you running to every corner of the world half-cocked, risking your neck for these stupid seals, all to prevent something from happening that they should have seen coming way sooner than they did.”

 _He doesn’t know_ , Castiel thought, and he felt a profound sadness. In that moment, Castiel wished, more than anything, that Dean hadn’t been raised from perdition for the reason he had been; that he were not hurtling towards the grim fate in store for him; that he, Castiel, could be anyone other than the angel chosen to guide him into Michael’s arms.

“You going to say anything?”

“I…appreciate that, Dean.”

Dean snorted, gave Castiel a smile that scattered his thoughts, sent them racing for purchase.

“Where are we going, Dean?” Castiel said, because Dean was still looking at him. This couldn’t be safe.

“Wherever we feel like, Chuckles.” Dean sat back in the driver’s seat and cranked up the volume on the radio, started playing air drums on the wheel, sang along to the track in a way that Castiel assumed was purposefully tuneless.

Michael could wait, Castiel thought, and he felt the novel sting of jealousy. Here, in the dominion of dreams, the wings of time flew slowly, peacefully. Entire lifetimes could pass in a single night. Castiel leaned into the passenger door and watched Dean sing, wanting to experience as many of those lifetimes as he could in the days they had left.


	3. Just What I Needed

“Man,” Dean said, after he’d finished splashing water on his face. “This sucks.”

Sam snorted from the headboard of his bed and glanced up from his laptop. “What?”

“Just, you know, I was really looking forward to a good old-fashioned, simple vamp case.” Dean dried his face in the mirror, flexed his jaw. “Something to take our minds off the end of the world.”

“Dean, this town has one more human killer than we thought. It also has one _less_ vampire nest than we thought. I’ll take that trade any day.”

“Yeah, you would, Sammy. Because you’re boring like that.”

Sam sighed and set his laptop down beside him. “Hey, Dean, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“This is going to sound weird, but—have you noticed anything different about the places we’ve been sleeping recently?”

Dean turned around and leaned back against the sink. “Different? Different how?”

“I don’t know, I can’t put my finger on it. About a week ago, when we were in that town with the rugaru, I thought I sensed something.”

“Something?” Dean gave Sam a look of feigned incredulity.

“Just—something watching us. It felt like it was nearby. You were asleep, so I got up and started looking around the parking lot.”

“Poking around a motel parking lot in the middle of the night by yourself.” Dean picked up his toothbrush and pointed it at Sam. “Haven’t you ever seen a slasher film? I mean, you’re not a blonde co-ed, but still—”

“Dean, I’m being serious.”

“Okay, you’re being serious,” Dean echoed, squeezing out a ribbon of toothpaste. “And? I’m guessing you didn’t find anything. You would’ve told me before now if you had.”

“Well, no, I didn’t. But the thing is, I felt the same…presence a few days later, when we were checking in on that one hunter friend of Bobby’s in Louisville.”

Dean pursed his lips noncommittally.

“And that same presence? I felt it last night. In this room.” Sam mashed his index finger into the mattress to emphasize the point.

Dean raised his toothbrush to his lips and began brushing. Sam stared at him.

“Dean!”

“What?”

“I don’t know, a reaction would be nice?”

“I’m brushing,” Dean mumbled, through a mouthful of saliva and toothpaste. He spun around and looked down at the sink, trying to think of a way to convincingly dismiss Sam’s concerns. Telling his brother that a male angel was visiting him in the wee hours of the morning wasn’t an option for about a half dozen reasons.

“I’ve been searching through the local lore I can find on the three places we’ve stayed in the last week, trying to see whether anything connects them,” Sam chattered from behind him. “Bupkis so far.”

Dean spat, gargled, rinsed his toothbrush. “You sure know how to spend your free time, Sammy.”

“Dean, come on.”

“No, you—” Dean turned off the bathroom light and walked to the foot of Sam’s bed. “You come on.”

“What?”

“It’s all in your head, Sam. You’re still on edge from our last job, from deciding not to use your abilities—”

“No, I’m not.”

“—Which is the right call. I’m proud of you.” Dean pulled aside the covers on his bed and checked the alarm clock. “But, you know, it’s going to take some time to get used to. You were knee-deep in that demon shit for months.”

Sam looked at him sidelong. “You’re proud of me?”

“Of course I am.” Dean sat on his mattress and offered Sam a tight smile. “You saw sense.”

“Right.” Sam picked up his laptop again and peered down at it. “Well, even if you don’t believe me, I know I’m not imagining this.”

Dean eased into bed, picked up the remote, rested his other hand on his bare chest. “Spin your wheels all you like, Sammy. You’re not going to find any spooky ghosts following us from fleabag to flophouse.”

“Watch me,” Sam said crisply.

“Nah, I’d rather watch this,” Dean retorted. He turned up the volume on the television and couldn’t resist smirking. Keeping a nocturnal visitor hidden from Sam—even just a platonic one—felt like delicious just desserts. Castiel watching over him while he slept was a hell of a lot more wholesome than the kind of secrets Sam had been keeping from him, after all.

* * *

The midnight sky over Council Bluffs was clear and purple-gray, streaked here and there with the star-blotting light pollution of Omaha across the river. Through the glass, the local radio was playing “Just What I Needed” at a volume that Dean had determined was just quiet enough to not rouse any of the other Super 8 guests. He lifted his head from the Impala’s windshield, took a swig from the bottle of whiskey he’d picked up in Louisville, and winked down at his crotch.

“Well, little guy, you did good.”

Dean lay his head back again as the liquid warmth spread through his torso. “You did good,” he repeated, with a small hiccup.

The thick sickle of the moon swam back and forth around the bowl of the sky. He could fairly be called drunk now, Dean decided.

“Like riding a bike,” Dean continued. “A blonde, blue-eyed, buxom, bootylicious bike.”

He wrinkled his nose at the sudden scent of bitter orange, cognac, and cold autumn rain, then started at the creaking of the Impala’s suspension.

“Christ!” Dean turned to the form that had appeared alongside his on the hood.

“No, it’s just me.”

“Cass.” Dean pushed himself up with his elbow and grinned down at him. “Haven’t seen you in a few days.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve been…busy.”

“Don’t be. They’ve got you running after seals, I guess?”

“No.” Castiel’s eyes darted to Dean’s waiting expression. “More like odds and ends. The world hurtling towards apocalypse doesn’t exempt me from looking after my everyday affairs.”

“What, like angel paperwork?”

“If you want to call it that.”

Dean chuckled and held out the bottle. Castiel blinked at him, then shook his head.

“I thought you’d be in bed.”

“You did, huh? I love when you talk dirty to me, Cass,” Dean japed, and sipped the whiskey.

“I meant that I thought you’d be—”

“I know what you meant,” Dean interrupted, with a flare of exasperation. “We have to spend the whole day driving tomorrow anyway, so I’m sleeping in. Thought I’d celebrate.”

“I see.”

“You could join me. Crack a smile, maybe. It’d be the first time we hung out in the real world.”

Castiel looked up at the heavens and demurred.

“’I will only come to you if nothing else demands my attention,’” Dean recited. “Your words, not mine.”

“Yes,” Castiel said grudgingly.

“So?”

“Where’s Sam? Can’t he keep you company?”

“Oh, brother.” Dean blew a raspberry. “Sammy’s up in our room, doing some ‘research’ on this mysterious presence that he swears he feels some nights. Dude’s obsessed.”

“Then he’s sensed me. I thought he might, even though I bring him tranquility when I appear in your room.”

“What, you grope my brother in his sleep, too?”

“It seemed easier than waking him up to explain it all,” Castiel said, shrugging.

“Anyway, point is, Sam’s leaving me high and dry.” Dean jiggled the whiskey bottle. “You’re my only hope, Cass.”

Castiel clasped his hands over his tie. “What is it that you’re celebrating?”

“Losing my virginity, man.” Dean took a long swig and bobbed his head to The Cars. “I’ve got to tell you, the second go-round blew the first one out of the water. It was like my body was experiencing all these sensations for the first time, but I had my very, very—”

Castiel wrinkled his brow as Dean paused dramatically.

“Very, _very_ experienced mind in the driver’s seat, hitting every spot just right. Making her sing, you know?”

Castiel returned his gaze to the stars. “How interesting.”

“You’re just what I needed,” Dean caterwauled. From the motel’s second-floor veranda, a man smoking a cigarette gave him the finger.

“How have you been sleeping?” Castiel said, as the song faded out.

“No nightmares recently. None two nights ago because—” Dean nudged Castiel’s elbow and wiggled his eyebrows. “You know, I was kind of occupied from dusk till dawn.”

“Were you fighting a demon?”

“No, Cass, I was having sex with a chick. Over and over. Goddamn, are you slow on the uptake.”

“And last night?”

“Slept like a baby.” Dean lifted his hands in bewilderment. “No idea why. Maybe still riding high on all those happy hormones from the night before.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, an edge in his voice. “Why are you telling me this?”

Dean scratched his temple. “Because you asked?”

“I don’t mean that. I mean the constant references to—fornication. You know I’m an angel of the Lord.”

“Oh, come on, Cass. You don’t seriously expect me to believe that God cares about all that “no sex before marriage” crap, do you?”

Castiel turned away, his Adam’s apple gliding up and down under the milky column of his neck.

“Jesus,” Dean groaned. “I just realized that you could have teleported into that room at any time.”

“Are you,” Castiel said, his eyes still facing the other end of the parking lot. “In love with this woman?”

“Am I—what?”

There was a sudden blast of wind from the west. Castiel lay still as a statue, meeting Dean’s question with silence.

“Look, Cass—wow, do you have a lot to learn about humans. No, I’m not freaking in love with her, dude! It’s 2008, not 1808. We knew each other for maybe two days.” Dean paused, checking for Castiel’s reaction. “We just liked the look of each other. Physical attraction.”

“Alright.”

“I mean, I guess I saved her life. That probably sped things up.”

Castiel turned and peered up at him. “Does that happen…often?”

“What, I save someone, they develop a little crush on me? Well, yeah. Let me tell you, the whole hero thing? Very seductive.”

“I see.” Castiel’s eyes flicked to the apex of the sky. “I should go.”

“Already?” Dean leaned forward, past the hood’s centerline. “But you just got here.”

“You don’t need me,” Castiel said matter-of-factly. “You were just telling me that you slept well last night.”

“Yeah, but—who knows if that’s permanent.” Dean frowned; Castiel was refusing to look him in the eye.

“I should go,” he repeated.

“Don’t,” Dean said, and he fell forward onto Castiel’s chest, his left hand dangling the drink bottle over the side of the Impala.

“Dean. What are you doing?”

“Stay a little while longer,” Dean slurred. “I hate drinking alone.”

“I’m not drinking,” Castiel reminded him.

“It doesn’t matter!” Dean’s voice pitched sharply, but after half a bottle of whiskey, he was past caring. “You’re just…here.”

Castiel shifted underneath him; Dean tensed himself for his disappearance, the fall to the Impala’s cold steel. Instead, he felt Castiel’s hand between his shoulder blades.

“I can delay for a few minutes, I suppose.”

“Ah,” Dean sighed. “A backrub from an angel. And all those high school teachers told me I’d never amount to anything.”

Castiel patted his back for a while, the chilly October breeze drifting copper and crimson leaves through the motel parking lot and onto the roof of the car. Now that it was nearing one in the morning, Dean was feeling the nip in the air through the alcohol and his leather jacket. He was glad for Castiel’s body heat.

Dean giggled into the lapel of Castiel’s trench coat. “Cass, you smell like a woman.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Castiel replied, the rhythm of his hand unchanging. “My vessel is male, and I am…energy.”

“Alright, you smell _nice_ , then.” Dean sniffed into Castiel’s starchy white shirt. “I’ve never been close enough to you to notice.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said flatly. Dean burst out laughing at his equanimity.

“You smell like—” Dean pointed his nose towards the bare skin below Castiel’s collarbone, where Dean’s weight had undone his top button. “Like the air on the freeway between two thunderstorms. Like a nice bottle of brandy. Like…that gay grapefruit drink Sammy always opens in the car.”

“Dean.” Castiel’s hand traveled to the nape of Dean’s neck, rested there. “You should return to your room now. It’s cold, and I have to get back before the others in the garrison wonder where I am.”

“Yeah,” Dean acquiesced. He nodded into Castiel’s ribs, but didn’t move otherwise. “Yeah, wouldn’t want Sammy getting worried.”

“Do you need help walking?”

“What?” Dean scoffed. “I’m not a sophomore sorority sister, Cass. I can hold my liquor.”

“Very well,” Castiel said, with a note of finality.

“Uh—” Dean pushed himself up with his free hand and looked down at Castiel, their eyes meeting for the first time since he’d fallen into him. “Hang on.”

“What is it?”

“I’m—we’re, er, going to Rock Ridge, Colorado tomorrow. That’s where I’ll be tomorrow night, I mean.”

"Dean." Castiel stroked Dean’s shoulder. “You do know that I can find you anywhere.”

Dean glanced at Castiel’s hand and shrugged. “Just in case.”

“Be careful,” Castiel said. His moonlit eyes flicked down and up Dean’s body.

He flew away on the next stiff gust from the Missouri River. Dean jolted forward, steadied himself against the Impala’s hood, and turned to look up at their room. Nearly all the motel’s lights were dark by now.

Dean eased himself off the car gingerly, reached across the driver’s seat to turn off the radio, locked the doors, and trudged across the parking lot, the dry leaves skittering in his wake. At the top of the stairs, he counted the doors, jammed his key into the third one, tumbled in. His breath hitched from the abrupt light and heat.

“Have a good night?” Sam said, sounding as if he’d been chomping at the bit to ask that question.

“Better than yours,” Dean growled, and locked the door. They grinned at each other.

“You know, Dean, we might be able to afford better food if you didn’t drink all our spare income away.”

“Sammy, forget it.” Dean tossed his key on the table and set the bottle down next to it. “Jack Daniel’s is a much better use of our money than kale smoothies. Or any other crap you have in mind.”

“Whatever, dude. Here, take a look at what I found.”

Dean shed his jacket and stumbled to Sam’s bed. “You found nothing.”

“It’s called a night hag,” Sam said, undeterred. “It follows people, sneaks into their rooms at night. Then it plagues them with nightmares and drains their life force.”

“Interesting.” Dean pouted his lips, glanced up at Sam. “But no.”

“What do you mean, ‘no?’”

“Well, I think that word’s pretty self-explanatory, Sammy.” He walked to the bathroom, kicked up the toilet seat, and drained his bladder. When he flushed and turned around, Sam was gaping at him, incensed.

“Right, and how the hell do you know that’s not what I’ve been feeling in our room at night?”

“Because—” Dean ran the water over his hands. “Because you’re probably not feeling anything, okay? And because I’m older.”

Sam shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“ _You_ don’t make any sense.” Dean dragged the toothbrush over his teeth. “You passed up a chance to go out drinking with your brother to—” he jabbed his finger accusingly in the mirror, hovering over Sam’s laptop. “To nerd out over ‘night hags.’”

“Dean,” Sam said calmly, as if explaining a painfully basic concept to a five-year-old. “I’m doing this for you. You’ve been having nightmares, I’ve been sensing a presence in our room—it all fits!”

Dean washed out his mouth and turned off the bathroom light. “It isn’t a night hag. Period.”

“You know what, you jerk?” Sam shut his laptop with a snap and turned off his lamp. “Fine. If there’s a night hag feeding on you, I’ll let her drain your brain out of your head. That’s if it isn’t already empty in there.”

“Thank you,” Dean replied, his voice lilting with sarcasm.

“Asshole,” Sam muttered into his pillow.

“You love me, Sammy.” Dean flipped the switch on his lamp, crawled under the duvet, and smiled in the darkness.

“It’s my one weakness,” Sam quipped, after a few seconds.

“There’s nothing—nothing _bad_ following us around,” Dean said. “Just trust me.”

“Do I want to parse that statement?”

“No, lawyer boy, you don’t. You want to trust me, shut up, and go to sleep.”

Sam snorted. “Night.”

“Night.” Dean rolled onto his side, facing away from Sam. Maybe keeping Castiel’s visits a secret from him was more trouble than it was worth. Maybe—but that would have to wait until tomorrow.

Dean relaxed into his pillow and thumbed his necklace. His thoughts from that night, muddled and dizzy with drink as they were, wound back into themselves in a way that seemed like the product of an irresistible logic. Like ripples on a body of water, they radiated out, carrying whispers and hints of the raindrop that had first pierced the stillness. As he drifted off, Dean traced back through the ripples, finding at their center the smell of citrus, and sweet wine, and the breathless moments before a second thunderhead opens up above the open road.


	4. Heaven

One of Zachariah’s many bromides, which he never hesitated to recite to all and sundry when he bothered paying a visit to the garrison, was that half of the bad news in the world was just welcome tidings with poor timing. So it was with the electric crackle of Dean’s voice in Castiel’s mind now, as he held two demons against the grimy, waterstained wall of the Cote-des-Neiges metro station.

 _Cass,_ he heard. _Cass, I’m scared._

Soothing Dean’s fears, after all, was something Castiel found himself taking more and more joy in. His lip twitched with the anticipation of going to Dean after this matter was taken care of.

_Come on, where are you?_

Castiel’s brows knitted in consternation; Dean’s angst felt different from normal, not like the nightmares. Something was wrong.

The blaze of Uriel smiting a third demon over the ticket counter startled him from his reverie, but it was too late. Seeing her opening, the demon under his left hand elbowed Castiel in the nose, sending him staggering back. She sprinted up the stairs of the metro station before Castiel could recover.

“Castiel!” Uriel bellowed. “We need her!”

Castiel gawked at the steps. His feet felt like lead. Uriel marched over, laid one hand over the head of the other demon, and pushed Castiel towards the station entrance. “Go after her!”

“Right.” Castiel apparated to the street above, but the sidewalk was empty. The early morning rain fell down in sheets, occluding his vision as he scanned the vicinity.

As far as he could make out, the only movement for blocks was the flickering of the streetlight above his head.

“Well?”

Castiel turned around to Uriel’s voice. “She’s gone.”

“Of course she’s gone,” Uriel said caustically. “With the kind of head start you gave her?”

“Uriel, I’m sorry.”

Uriel huffed out a cloud of breath. “What exactly happened back there, Castiel? Why did you falter?”

“I…don’t know,” Castiel lied. “I lost concentration for less than a second. It was enough.”

“This,” Uriel said, as he walked under the awning of a nearby greengrocer. “This is not good.”

“I know.”

Uriel sighed, put his hands on his hips, gazed out at the rain. “I have to find her. Before she has a chance to return to the reliquary.”

“’You’ have to find her?” Castiel glowered at Uriel’s back. “Mind yourself, Uriel. I still give the orders.”

“Castiel.” Uriel tapped his fingers to the side of one of the produce bins. “If something is distracting you, you’re a liability. I can take care of things on my own. Or ask one of our siblings to assist me while you recuperate, if that would make you feel better.”

“’Recuperate?’ I’m not ill, Uriel.”

“Brother—"

“Enough.” Castiel looked up at the near face of Mount Royal, where Saint Joseph’s Oratory glowed dimly in ivory and jade. “We will wait outside the shrine until midnight. She can’t perform the ritual anywhere else.”

Uriel tutted. “Castiel, we could have ended this here. And probably extracted some vital information on her accomplices.”

“There’s no point in dwelling on that. It won’t happen again.”

“Just tell me one thing.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “We’re wasting time.”

“Did it have anything to do with your human?” Uriel shot him a canny, oblique glance under the pale streetlamp. “The one you’ve developed a certain…fondness for?”

“He has a name,” Castiel said sharply.

“Listen to me, Castiel.” Uriel stepped closer to him, wearing a smile that looked at least partway genuine. “Listen well. Stop this foolishness now, before it goes too far.”

Castiel looked away, down at the rivulets of water as they rushed and whirled into the storm drain.

“It’s easy to feel pity for these creatures. We all do, from time to time. But we serve the will of Heaven. There can be nothing else.”

“Go,” Castiel ordered, his voice wavering. “I’ll join you soon.”

“Think about what I’ve said, brother.” Uriel patted Castiel’s shoulder, then disappeared into the night.

Dean’s voice had gone silent in Castiel’s head. He wasn’t sure why; he also wasn’t sure whether he’d been correct in his assessment earlier that something more than nightmares was plaguing Dean. In any case, that didn’t matter: Castiel had a vital mission to see through, so Dean would have to fend for himself for a bit longer. Hunters were resourceful, and Sam would do whatever it took to protect Dean.

Castiel smoothed down his trench coat, comforted himself with these final thoughts. He needed serenity for the next twenty hours. There was a vigil to keep, a cabal to quash: a world to preserve, for all its imperfections. Above all, he was a warrior—an instrument of God’s plan. Uriel went too far, but he had a point. It was time to fly out.

He knew all this.

And yet, the first thing he felt once he opened his eyes and stepped forward into the rain was his grace thrilling to the promise of seeing Dean again after midnight.

* * *

The brothers were in a motel on the north side of Fort Collins, just off U.S. Route 287. Castiel was surprised to find Sam sleeping soundly when he flew into their room. Knowing what he did of the younger Winchester, he’d expected some plan to trap Dean’s mysterious caller, or at least an attempt to feign slumber and observe them clandestinely. Perhaps Dean had put his mind at ease. Castiel tapped his fingertips to Sam’s forehead lightly; he grimaced and gnashed his teeth, then smiled and relaxed.

Castiel walked to Dean’s bed and sat beside him. With a tilt of his head, he picked up and inspected the whiskey bottle on the nightstand, recalling with a faint smile the warmth of Dean’s alcohol-soused breath as they lay on the hood of the Impala, the bristling of his short-cropped hair on Castiel’s disheveled collar. This was a new vessel, Castiel noted, as he returned the bottle to its place next to the lamp. It resonated with none of the memories of that night.

Dean twitched in his sleep, made a soft bubbling noise. Castiel brushed his hand along Dean’s neck, and they were sitting below a grove of sweet chestnuts, on the gently sloping bank of a gurgling stream.

“Cass,” Dean said, almost immediately. “Figures you’d come now.”

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean snorted and looked away. Castiel reached out, but dropped his hand to the grass and glanced around with apprehension before he reached Dean’s shoulder. He’d created this dreamworld to be tranquil and rejuvenating—on one of their hundred-mile trips along the roads of the American Southwest, Dean had mentioned that he wished he had more time to fish—yet it pulsed hot with tremulous energy. Dean was incandescent with barely contained emotions, and there were too many of them—longings, resentments, contradictions—for Castiel to make sense of.

“I’m guessing you didn’t hear me wondering where you were last night, then.”

Castiel wrapped his arms around his knees and counted the ripples on the water. “I did hear you.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Castiel peered at Dean, knowing he wanted to say more.

“What?” Dean finally barked.

“You’re upset with me,” Castiel observed.

Dean picked up a pebble and skipped it across the creek, making it nearly to the opposite bank. “How’d you figure that one out, Einstein?”

“Dean. I’m—”

“You’re what, sorry?”

“Yes.” Castiel brushed his hand along Dean’s forearm.

“Don’t,” Dean said roughly. He jerked his arm away and skipped another stone over the water.

Castiel followed the voyage of the pebble with his eyes until it sank to the bottom, then turned back to him. “Dean.”

“Do you have any idea how scared I was last night?” Dean squinted at him in the sunshine, his voice cracking. “I felt like my body was being torn apart. I felt like my heart was bursting in my chest!”

“I was—”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. You were busy.”

Castiel sighed and leaned back on his elbows. “What…happened? Last night?”

“There was a ghost; some specific type of ghost I don’t remember the name of. It infected me with this…fear.”

“You were afraid of it.” Castiel nodded. “Because it was a spirit.”

“No, Cass, I mean it literally infected me. It was a sickness, and I only had two days to live.” Dean pulled up a clod of grass and soil and tossed it into the creek with a violent snap of his shoulder.

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Not only that, but one of the symptoms was these visions—hallucinations—of things I feared.” He shifted his legs, drawing them up to his chest. “Sam as a demon, hellhounds, Lilith—” Dean broke off and shook his head.

“You dreamed of Hell, but while you were awake,” Castiel summarized.

Dean gave him a sidelong glance. “Now do you see why I could have used your assistance?”

“Yes.”

“I could have died.” Dean turned his back on him and picked up another stone.

“But you didn’t.”

“No thanks to you,” Dean muttered. “You don’t care at all, do you?”

With a rumbling in the clouds at the far end of the valley, a swell of wind gusted down towards them, drawing white eddies along the stream, shaking the chestnuts in the trees, tousling Dean’s sleep-soft hair. Dean sat up and swallowed, his lips parted in surprise.

“I’m getting tired of this, Dean.”

Dean dropped the pebble in his hand. “Tired. _You’re_ tired of _me_?”

“Yes, I am. I’m tired of your moodiness, your petulance, your selfishness.” Castiel pitched forward so that his eyes were only inches from Dean’s. “I don’t belong to you.”

Dean glared back at him, only dropping his gaze once Castiel sat back on his haunches again.

“I do care what happens to you,” Castiel said, as he watched the river run. “That’s the problem.”

“Why—” Dean’s voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you—”

“I was battling a group of demons in Montreal. When I heard you, I lost my focus for a split-second. Long enough for one of them to escape.”

“You amateur,” Dean murmured, and he elbowed Castiel’s knee.

Castiel frowned and brushed a chestnut leaf from his sleeve. “Your jokes aren’t appropriate. That demon went on to kill two people before we put an end to her later that night.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh.’” The wind swirled around them as Castiel hung his head. “That can’t happen again, Dean.”

“Alright, well—just shut down your whole little one-way radio connection to me when you’re out on a job.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Castiel pressed his lips together, looked to his side, picked up one of the smooth rocks between them. He flung it into the river, trying to imitate the elegant trajectory of Dean’s toss, but it plopped to the bottom with a sonorous splash as soon as it hit the water.

“That was a stinker.” Dean raised his hand to shield his eyes from the midday sun. “And a sinker.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel replied. “I’m at least an order of magnitude stronger than you.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not about the size of your arm. Or the potency of your angel juice, in your case.” Dean retrieved a pile of stones from the gravel near his feet. “It’s all in—” he glided one down the path of the river and into the patch of reeds on the opposite shore. “How you use what you’ve got.”

“I see.” Castiel reached for one of the rocks in Dean’s hand. “May I?”

“Go for it.”

Castiel tried again, throwing the pebble lower and with more spin this time.

“Better,” Dean conceded. “But just a little more—here, let me show you.”

He placed the last stone he had in Castiel’s palm, then rolled onto his side so he could line up his right arm along his. The back of Castiel’s hand tingled as Dean eased himself into the grooves between his fingers.

“Alright, loosen up a little bit.”

Castiel let his arm go slack against Dean’s. The rock slipped out of his hand and into the grass.

“I said ‘a little bit.’” Dean picked up the skipping stone and closed Castiel’s hand over it. “Tighter.”

“Like this?”

“Not that tightly, He-Man. We’re not trying to make sand out of it. Just aim for halfway between this and the first thing you did.”

“I’m not very good at this, Dean.”

“Yeah, well no one’s good at it the first time. It takes practice.” Dean pulled back Castiel’s arm with his, then pushed it forward slowly. “So, you pull back, back—pretty much as far back as you can. Twist your torso. Then come forward—lead with your elbow—and let it go when it’s right in front of your body. And follow through. See?”

“I think so.”

Dean let go of his arm and lay back against the slope. “Give it a try, then.”

Castiel retraced the motion a few times, then hurled the stone forward. It bounced twice before spinning down into the current.

“Nothing to it,” Dean said approvingly. “Now, it’ll take you a while before you’re a master like me, but don’t lose hope. You’ll get there one day.”

Castiel grinned, watched the ripples spread out and fade away. After a while, the stream returned again to its normal course, glass-smooth and undisturbed, as if nothing had happened at all. Castiel shut his eyes, knowing what he had to do.

“I like this, Dean.”

Dean grunted softly as he stretched in the grass. “Certainly beats last night.”

“Which is why it can’t continue.” Castiel turned to him and felt a stab of pain at Dean’s confused expression.

“Come again, Chuckles?”

“What happened on my last mission…cannot happen again.” He lifted his eyes to the wispy clouds above the grove. “The will of Heaven is paramount.”

“Cass.” Dean sat up, dusted off his arms. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re a distraction.” Castiel stood and looked down at him. “It’s entirely my fault for letting it go on this long.”

Dean stared at him blankly. “I’m a…’distraction?’”

“Yes.”

“But I thought—”

“You won’t see me again until we have need of you.”

“Cass.”

“I’m sorry, Dean. This is the way it has to be.”

“Cass!”

The clear sky crackled with lightning; a sudden squall billowed Castiel’s coat behind him and swayed the boughs of the chestnut trees. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and then he was in the motel room again.

Dean gasped in his sleep, the sweat beading along his collarbone. Before he could stir, Castiel brushed his fingers over his forehead, sending him to rest again.

For a few minutes, Castiel sat by Dean’s side, watching the steady rise and fall of his broad chest in its black T-shirt; listening to his peaceful, metronomic breathing; feeling the warmth of Dean’s blankets along the back of his hand, where Dean had taken hold of him on the riverbank and taught him how to skip rocks.

He stood, stared down at the carpet between the two beds. As much as this hurt, Castiel thought, there was always the bigger picture to consider. There was no comfort in thinking of the bigger picture, but comfort was an extravagance which Castiel had never thought he deserved.

* * *

He had only been sitting on the beach—legs crossed, back straight, breath relaxed, contemplating the moon and tides—for half an hour before he was interrupted.

“Ah, Castiel.”

“Zachariah,” Castiel replied, opening his eyes to the ocean. “Do you require me?”

He’d felt him watching him from further up the beach for a while. Zachariah found it entertaining to keep his underlings off balance by varying the amount of time he’d take to speak after he appeared.

“No, no,” Zachariah said, as he sauntered up to Castiel’s back. “Just dropping by for a social call.”

Castiel gave him a guarded look.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” He held out a frosty lowball glass crowned with a magenta umbrella. “Mai Tai?”

“I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself,” Zachariah said, and raised the drink to his lips. “I just figured, you know, when in Hawaii.”

He walked forward, disappeared his shoes, and dipped his bare feet in the water. “Speaking of which, I’m surprised. Meditating on a pearly sand beach in Polynesia seems like such an exotic choice for you, Castiel. I had you down as more of an…oh, I don’t know, Midwest type of guy. Omaha, maybe?”

Castiel screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. He found few things in existence less amusing than Zachariah’s perverse sense of humor, his indefatigable instinct to poke and prod. Nevertheless, his only option was to endure it.

“Anyway,” Zachariah said, walking back along the sand to where Castiel was sitting. “How are you doing?”

“You have my mission reports.”

“I do. Very well-written, by the way, as always.” Zachariah twitched his fingers, and there was a roaring brazier laden with tuna steaks between them. “But I want to know about how _you’re_ doing.”

“I…remain vigilant.” Castiel stood up and clasped his hands behind his back. “As ever.”

“Good to hear.” He waved his Mai Tai-less hand again, appearing a three-legged table, two rattan chairs, and a boombox playing Bryan Adams’s “Heaven” behind Castiel.

Castiel glanced over his shoulder, then returned his gaze to Zachariah. “Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know, Castiel.” Zachariah rotated the tuna with a pair of tongs; he had donned a floral novelty apron in the few seconds that Castiel had spent looking away. “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I don’t know what—”

“Castiel,” Zachariah said, his voice like a whip. “Don’t dissimulate. You’re awful at it.”

 _Baby, you're all that I want / When you're lying here in my arms_ , Bryan rasped.

“There’s no problem,” Castiel said evenly, as he stared into the burning coals of the brazier. “I realized that I’d let Dean Winchester get too close to me. I…reprimanded him.”

“Not too harshly, I hope. We still need to work with him.”

“He’ll work with us.” Castiel swallowed his bile and raised his eyes to Zachariah. “If it means saving Sam, Dean would do anything.”

“Ah, now _that’s_ what I like to hear.” Zachariah pulled a serving platter from his pocket and began dishing the fish onto it. “Machiavellian ruthlessness. He was truly a human after my own heart.”

Castiel tried to not let the resentment he was feeling show on his face. “If there’s nothing else—"

“What?” Zachariah flicked his eyes down to the plate in his hand. “You’re not going to join me?”

“No, if it’s all the same to you. I’d rather be alone with my thoughts until my next mission.”

“Oh, fine.” Zachariah rolled his eyes, snapped his fingers, and the beach was empty and silent again. “Party pooper.”

Castiel took in a long breath and peered up at the moon, hoping that Zachariah would be gone by the time he exhaled.

“It’s good that you took the initiative to set some healthier boundaries with Dean,” Zachariah said, as if he were only coming to this conclusion now. “You’ll need them in the coming days.”

“What does that mean?”

“I might have something for you and Uriel to do soon. Something that involves the two of you working with the Winchesters quite intimately.”

Zachariah pivoted and walked off, leaving behind a set of bare footprints in the sand. Castiel watched him, perplexed.

“Like I said, it’s really a boon that you’ve gotten all that pesky relationship dynamic business out of the way now,” Zachariah needled, his voice still as loud as if he were at Castiel’s side. “It’ll help you think more clearly down the road.” At the point where the shore curved inland, a gaggle of brown geese took flight at his approach, and he vanished.

Castiel shook his head and sat down on the beach again. Back in the motel room on the outskirts of Fort Collins, he’d set his thoughts on isolation and the quiet beauty of nature: somewhere he’d be able to center his mind on duty and fidelity; somewhere far enough from Dean to push him out of his head, as unlikely as that was. He’d tumbled onto the northern edge of an uninhabited, windswept bird sanctuary off the coast of Maui.

Then Zachariah had arrived and announced to him that he’d have to see Dean again soon, undoing all that effort. He was probably toying with him intentionally, trying to get a rise out of the most reserved, somber angel in the garrison. It was exactly the kind of thing he’d always done for amusement.

Castiel bit his bottom lip and picked up one of the smooth, saucer-shaped rocks from the sand. With a torque of his torso, a flick of his wrist, he launched it into the Pacific Ocean, expecting it to skid soundlessly up the path of moonlight that stretched to the horizon. Instead, a cresting wave stopped it in its tracks, swallowed it down, and sent it plummeting to the stillness at the bottom of the sea.


	5. Separate Ways

Sam opened the car door and rolled his eyes at the mountain of wrappers on the passenger seat. “Dude, you ate all the Halloween candy?”

“Of course not,” Dean lied. “I left a few for you.”

“For me? You know I don’t eat that stuff. It’s empty calories.”

“Yeah? Then hop back on your juice cleanse and stop bitching.” Dean fisted up the candy wrappers and tossed them into the grocery bag of trash in the back seat.

Sam slid into the Impala and slammed the door shut. “Jerk.”

“Sorry.” Dean turned over the engine and shifted the car into gear. “It’s this job—it’s stressing me out. You know I don’t like witches.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.” Dean craned his neck forward to see the oncoming traffic, then turned out onto the state highway. The high school was only nine miles away, but it already looked like Sam wanted to spend all of their time trapped in the car together talking about Dean's feelings.

“You sure?”

“Sammy, are you going to nag me like a wife for the entire drive?”

Sam rolled down his window; the brisk autumn wind tousled his hair, flicked long strands into his eyes. “Sue me for giving a damn.”

“Well—” Dean sighed. “Look, I haven’t been sleeping well lately. It’s making me—”

“A grouch?”

“If you say so.”

“You having the nightmares again?”

Dean turned on the radio. “I always have nightmares, Sam.”

“It’s weird, though,” Sam said pensively. “I haven’t sensed the presence in a while.”

“The ‘night hag?’ See, I told you it was nothing.”

“The last time I felt it was back in Colorado,” Sam said, ignoring him. “It felt different that time, somehow.”

“Oh, a different hag? Damn, I’m popular.”

“I said it _felt_ different. I’m pretty sure it was the same thing as all the other times.”

Dean slowed to a stop at the red light, peered at Sam. “You got all that from some nocturnal sixth sense? You’re not using your powers again, are you?”

“No!”

“Then how are you picking up all this stuff?”

Sam threw up his hands. “Fuck if I know, Dean!”

“What, uh—” Dean glanced at him once they’d passed through the intersection. “I mean, in what way did it feel different?”

“You’re going to make fun of me for this—”

“I probably will.”

“—But I’m pretty sure it felt…sad.”

Dean swallowed and twisted the station dial. “Sad?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how else to describe it, other than sadness.”

“’Sad.’” Dean cleared his throat and fine-tuned one of the rock stations. “Just what we need. Supernatural entities having emotional breakdowns.”

“Anyway, I haven’t felt it since we left Colorado last week. Maybe it lost our scent.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Sammy.”

“What?” Sam cocked his head. 

Dean turned away from him to hide his smirk. “Huh?”

“Dean, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Nothing you need to know, Sam.” Dean upped the volume and stepped on the accelerator to get them through the next light.

“Honestly, Dean, I’m surprised you haven’t noticed anything. You’re usually the first one to reach for the gun under your pillow when something goes bump in the night.”

“Well, I haven’t, alright? Can we please just focus on this witch?”

Sam shrugged; they both relaxed into their respective sides of the Impala. Dean tapped out the bassline on the car floor and yawned.

Sam flashed him a subversive grin. “You know, I read that doing yoga regularly is supposed to help with sleep.”

“And?”

“Have you ever considered picking it up?”

“Actually, I have.”

Sam puckered his lips in skepticism. “Really.”

“Sure. All those sweaty, flexible babes in skintight, stretchy pants—what’s not to like?”

“Right.” Sam reached forward and lowered the radio’s volume.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean swatted Sam’s hand away and turned the sound up again.

“You know I hate Journey, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never really cared what shotgun thinks, Sammy. You should know that by now.”

Sam let out a huff of irritation and sat back in his seat.

“Someday love will find you, break those chains that bind you,” Dean brayed.

“Kill me now,” Sam muttered.

* * *

Dean stretched his neck in small circles, leaned back to get his hair fully wet, hunched forward to let the hot, relaxing water run down his sore back. He’d been in the shower for at least ten minutes now without actually doing any washing, and the air in the motel bathroom hung thick with steam. But seeing as even successful monster hunts involved being punched in the face, kicked in the ribs, and flung into walls, he felt like his aching bones and throbbing muscles deserved a little tender loving care.

Two powerful witches were dead, Samhain was vanquished for another 600 years, and a town in Ohio no one had ever heard of had been spared the wrath of Heaven. Not bad for a high school dropout and a guy who allowed the phrase “empty calories” to pass his lips.

What’s more, he’d cajoled Sam into going on a beer and fast food run, so there’d be a case and a roast beef sandwich waiting for him on the table when he got out of the shower. Or thereabouts, depending on how long Sam hemmed and hawed over the Arby’s menu.

 _Being alive isn’t so bad_ , Dean thought, with less irony than usual. He unwrapped the flimsy motel soap and frothed his torso, scrubbed his armpits, ran the bar haphazardly over his arms and legs. When he was done rinsing off the suds, he uncapped the shampoo tube, squeezed it over the crown of his head, and massaged his hair.

Dean shut his eyes and began singing Journey again.

“Sleepless nights,” he howled. “Losing ground, I'm reaching for you, you, you!”

He hummed, rocked his shoulders back and forth under the showerhead, and pinched his fingers through his hair to make sure all the shampoo had circled down the drain. Then he wiped the water from his face and opened his eyes.

“What the fuck!”

Dean jerked back from the translucent shower door and nearly lost his footing on the slippery tiles. Castiel was standing in the middle of the bathroom, staring straight at him through the frosted glass.

“Cass, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Hello, Dean.” He walked up to the door; his features were blurred by the steam, but there was no doubting that it was him, even before he’d opened his mouth. “I apologize if I startled you. I announced my presence when I first entered, but you were…distracted. Singing.”

“You ever heard of knocking?”

Castiel tilted his head. “I flew directly into this room. Should I have knocked on the inside of the door?”

“Jesus Christ, Cass—”

“Ah, I see your meaning.” Castiel nodded vigorously.

“You do?”

“Yes.” Castiel rapped his knuckles against the glass. “This is what I should have done, I assume?”

“Oh yeah, letting yourself into the bathroom when someone else is already in there and knocking on the shower door is totally an acceptable thing to do. If you’re sleeping with the person, that is.”

“I see. I’ll try to do better in the future.”

“What do you want, Cass?” Dean bellowed.

“There were…things I forgot to say. Back at the park, when we were sitting on the benches. I remembered them just now. I want to ask you about them.”

Dean shut off the water and put his hands on his hips. “And this couldn’t wait?”

“You just defeated Samhain,” Castiel said, after a pause. “There’s nothing else for you to do until you find your next job. Isn’t this the ideal time to talk?”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Dean snorted. “You know, Cass, sometimes I really question whether you’re as clueless as you seem, or if you’re just getting one over on me and laughing about it with your fellow angels.”

“I promise you, Dean.” Castiel raised his sleeve and wiped away the steam from the section of glass between their eyes. “None of the other angels find anything about you funny.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Dean glared at him through the door’s transparent spot. “Getting a good look, you perv?”

Castiel gave him a bemused look. “Dean, I know every inch of your body intimately. I was the one who remade you from the clay of Tartarus.”

“Creepy,” Dean muttered.

“If I had been interested in titillation, I could have observed you clandestinely.”

“Because that makes me feel so much better, Cass.”

Castiel wet his lips with his tongue and said nothing.

“Alright, move out of the way.” Dean lifted his hand, motioned languorously.

“I’m sorry for surprising you,” Castiel repeated.

Dean stepped out and clicked the shower door closed behind him. Castiel had hardly budged, yielding exactly enough space for Dean to exit the shower but no more. They stood practically nose-to-nose on the bathmat: Dean dripping wet and stark naked; Castiel fully clothed, almost as tall as Dean with the added inch of his dress shoes.

“It’s not just that, Cass.” Dean shifted uneasily as Castiel’s eyes roved all over his body, taking in everything with guileless fascination, making no attempt to conceal their interest.

“What, then?” Castiel glanced up to Dean’s eyes again.

“First things first. Pass me the towel behind you.”

Castiel handed it to Dean, watched inquisitively as he hastily rubbed it over his head, arms, chest, and back, then wrapped it loosely around his hips.

“Personal space,” Dean began. “It’s an important concept to humans.”

“I’m not human, though.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “But _I_ am, Cass. So—” Dean gripped Castiel by the shoulders and guided him back gently, until he was about a foot and a half away. “So, give me that much space, at least.”

“If that’s your wish,” Castiel said reluctantly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Last week, when we were on the car, you wanted to be closer.” Castiel peered into Dean’s eyes, then abruptly pitched forward and embraced him. “Remember this?”

Castiel’s scent—earthy like aged liquor, bright like bergamot, ethereal like the gust front of a lightning storm—wafted into his nostrils. Dean closed his eyes and relaxed into his arms.

“Isn’t this nice, Dean?”

The throaty vibration of Castiel’s voice against his damp shoulder snapped Dean out of his trance. He cleared his throat and pushed Castiel away softly.

“That was when I was drunk, Cass. I get a little fruity after downing most of a bottle of whiskey.”

“’Fruity.’” Castiel wrinkled his brow. “I don’t know what this means.”

“You know, happily drunk. Overly friendly. Handsy.”

“Ah. So, when you’re drunk, I should stand closer to you?”

Dean sighed. “Let’s just start with what to do when I’m sober, alright?” He pushed past Castiel and picked up his stick of deodorant.

“But you’re intoxicated quite often, Dean.”

“Look, I don’t need a personal, teleporting AA counselor, alright?” Dean jammed the cap back onto his deodorant and threw it into his toiletry bag.

Castiel was silent for a few seconds; Dean ran the warm water in the sink and set his razor and shaving cream down on the counter.

“I don’t understand what you just said,” Castiel finally replied.

“Don’t worry about it, Chuckles.” Dean lathered his jaw, dipped the razor under the faucet. “Why are you here, anyway? You said I’d only see you if you had work for me. Isn’t the job done? Thought you’d have flown the coop by now.”

“This is…related. I noticed on two occasions—once yesterday, once today—that you were able to sense my presence preternaturally.”

Dean glanced up at the mirror and watched Castiel pace across the length of the bathroom. “What do you mean, like without seeing you?”

“Without having any sensory information about me at all. The first was when Uriel and I first met with the two of you to talk about the witch: you knew I was in the motel room and told Sam to stand down before you entered. The second was at the park today: you began talking to me right when I appeared, before you turned around.”

“Maybe that second one was me catching a whiff of your delicious scent.” Dean shaved little lines above his upper lip and winked at Castiel in the mirror.

“No,” Castiel said dismissively. “The molecules in the air wouldn’t have reached you in time.”

Dean laughed at his reflection and started in on his left cheek. “Seems like you’ve thought a lot about this.”

“I have. I know, probably better than anyone else save God, that you’re a normal human. The sensing of angelic presences isn’t an ability that normal humans possess.”

“Sam can sense you. Or at least, he can sense something.”

“My point exactly.”

Dean stopped shaving and pursed his lips. “Well, it isn’t ‘angelic presences’ that I sense, I can tell you that. Because I had no idea Uriel was in the room until I saw him at the window.”

“I see.” Castiel looked down at his hands. “Then perhaps there’s just something between us.”

Dean started with the razor again. “Cass, you just recited the opening line of about a dozen cheesy seventies songs. And you know what?” He pointed at him in the mirror. “I approve of that.”

“That would explain why your thoughts intrude on mine at times, even without the conduit of prayer,” Castiel said absently.

“Why doesn’t it work in the other direction, then? I can’t hear what you’re thinking. Doubt I’d want to, either.”

“You have no frame of reference for comprehending my mind. It would be like a housecat attempting to read a textbook on quantum mechanics.” Castiel took a step towards Dean, stopping just behind his back.

“Thanks for that comparison, Cass.”

“And it’s not only that. I also actively conceal my thoughts from others. The other angels can be nosy….” Castiel trailed off as bitterness crossed his visage. “And some of them derive enjoyment from teasing me.”

“Oh, thank God. I was beginning to think that every angel was an Eeyore like you. Or a prick like your friend Junkless.” Dean rinsed his razor, rubbed shaving cream under his chin. “I’m glad to know at least some of them have a sense of humor.”

“You wouldn’t like their jokes. Of that I’m certain.”

Dean pulled a face but didn’t respond.

“I wonder if our bond is from me remaking you.” Again, Castiel’s eyes were traveling up and down the lines of Dean’s body.

Dean shrugged and began shaving against the grain of his neck. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Castiel reached forward, his breath ghosting over the width of Dean’s back, and crept his fingers up Dean’s arm. Dean watched him warily. He slowed the pace of his shaving; when Castiel’s fingertips reached the imprint of his hand and began to caress around its edges, he tensed, cut the point of his chin, dropped the razor to the sink.

“Goddammit.” Dean bit his lower lip, examined his reflection. “This is your fault, Cass.”

“Allow me.” Castiel hooked his right arm around Dean’s shoulder and touched his chin, mending the wound instantaneously.

“Thanks.” Dean flexed his jaw.

They locked eyes in the mirror; Castiel nodded slowly and returned his arm to his side. His left hand still lingered on Dean’s shoulder.

“Does it…hurt?” Castiel canted his head towards the mark. “When I touch it? Is that why your hand jumped?”

“No. Shaving just requires some focus, that’s all.” Dean retrieved his razor, rinsed it under the tap again.

“And I distracted you.” Castiel stroked his hand over the scar tissue.

“Yes. No.” Dean cleared his throat. “Thing is, Cass—look, I’m just going to come right out and say it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to put the moves on me.”

Castiel stared at him, his cerulean eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Dean continued. “I mean, all this—this touching. The eye fucking. Wanting to see me naked. Standing in my personal space. I know you’re not human, so you don’t understand what it all means, but—"

“Not everything is about sex, Dean,” Castiel snapped.

“I know, I’m only saying.” Dean finished shaving his neck and examined his face in the mirror. “Look, I know you’re way above all that, it just sort of comes off like—"

“Dean, like I said, I’m here because I want to find out why we’re connected in the way we are.”

“Yeah. Hey, if anyone’s strictly business, it’s you, Cass. Forget I said anything.”

Castiel sighed, slid his hand down Dean’s arm, stepped back. Dean shut his eyes and bent over to splash water on his face. He had the feeling that he’d offended Castiel’s angelic sensibilities in some way. _Add it to the list of things about me that piss him off_ , Dean thought.

It really did seem like Castiel wanted to jump his bones, though. It wasn’t Dean’s fault that an immortal, awesomely powerful being had decided to dress up like a bisexual comic book character when he touched down on Earth. Nor was it his fault that said immortal, awesomely powerful being couldn’t keep his eyes or hands off him.

“So, uh, what does this special radio frequency between us have to do with Heaven’s work for me, again?” Dean turned around, leaned against the vanity, dabbed the hand towel to his face. Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when a voice came through, muffled, from outside.

“Dean?”

Dean stopped drying his face and gaped at the door.

“It’s Sam,” Castiel murmured.

“I know it’s Sam, Cass,” Dean hissed. “You need to go.”

“Go?”

“Yes, go! Flap your wings, fly like an eagle to the fricking sea!”

“I don’t understand.” Castiel frowned. “Sam knows who I am now.”

“I’ll explain _why_ another time, alright? Just beat it!”

“Dean?” Sam knocked on the bathroom door. “Who are you talking to?”

“No one, Sammy!” Dean grabbed Castiel by the shoulders and shoved him behind the door.

“Oh.” Sam paused; Dean could hear the gears turning in his head. “Well, open up. The salad dressing started dripping out of the bag on my way up to the room, so I want to wash my hands. And I really have to take a leak.”

Dean threw a panicked glance at Castiel, flicked his head violently. “Beat it!”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Sam. Just give me a minute, okay?”

“Oh.” A low chuckle passed through the thin wood between them. “Dean, are you masturbating?”

“No, I’m not masturbating,” Dean said indignantly.

“Oh,” Sam repeated, the vowel longer this time. “There’s someone else in there, isn’t there? How’d you even manage that? I was gone for like forty minutes.”

“Wrong again, Sammy,” Dean said, as he stared into Castiel’s azure doe eyes. “But if there were, you’d be the most embarrassing little brother ever.”

Sam jiggled the doorknob. “Then let me in. What the hell, Dean? It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”

Dean looked at Castiel desperately. Based on the wry half-smile that dimpled one of his cheeks, it seemed like he found the situation deeply amusing. Of course the guy had to develop a sense of humor now, of all times.

The scratching of a key in the doorknob brought his attention back to Sam.

“Sam, what are you doing?”

Sam threw open the door and gawked at Dean, then leaned in and gazed around the bathroom. Dean pressed his palm over his eyes, expecting Sam to see Castiel’s reflection behind the door at any moment.

“Huh. You’re okay.”

Dean dropped his hand and glanced at the spot where Castiel had been. At some point before Sam had burst in, he’d flown off.

“What the hell, Sammy?” Dean put his hands on his hips; he was fairly sure that the thundering of his heartbeat was visible on his bare chest. “Don’t just break in when I’m in the bathroom.”

“Sorry.” Sam brushed past Dean and unzipped at the toilet. “You were acting weird. I thought you might be in trouble.”

Dean walked to his bed, dropped his towel, and pulled on the pair of boxer briefs at the top of his duffel bag. “Your concern is touching.”

“Sorry for taking so long.” Sam flushed the toilet and slammed the lid shut. “It took me a while to find my way around.”

“It took you a while to find fast food and a 7-11? See, this is why I always drive.”

Sam dried his hands and walked towards him. “How about, ‘Thank you, Sam, for bringing me dinner while I sat on my ass?’”

“Sammy.” Dean opened two beers, handed one to Sam.

“Yeah?”

“You are such a woman.”

Sam rolled his eyes and clinked his bottle into Dean’s. “Cheers, jerk.”

They smiled at each other through the first sip. Sam sat down at the table, tilted his beer back and forth languidly.

“Uriel paid me a visit today,” Sam said, once Dean had sat down across from him. “Before we checked out from the last place. I think you were getting gas or something.”

“Or something,” Dean replied, thinking about his detour to the playground. “What’d Junkless have to say?”

“He wasn’t too happy about me using my abilities, for one.”

“Yeah, well—”

“I know you don’t approve either,” Sam interrupted. “But I’d do it again in a second. To save an entire town? I don’t give a shit what the angels say, I’d do it.”

Dean pouted his lips and took another long swig of beer.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think—” Sam furrowed his brow, met Dean’s gaze again. “The angels. Do you think they’re all like him? Gigantic dicks, I mean.”

Dean sat back in his chair and smiled as he thought about Castiel’s awkward closeness, his naïve fondling, his endearing innocence.

The tenderness of his healing touch in the bathroom mirror.

The sublime scent of his neck, somehow delicate and intimidatingly masculine at the same time.

The cheeky grin that flitted across his lips as he hid behind the bathroom door, delighting in Dean’s discomfort.

Dean blinked and chugged down the rest of his beer. Whatever these feelings were, they were wrong. And for too many reasons to count.

But even so—

“Nah,” Dean said, and popped the cap from another bottle. “Not all. I’m sure some of them are really great guys.”


	6. Shooting Star

It was early afternoon in the middle of the Pacific, so Castiel had sat down to meditate at the top of the beach, in the shade of the octopus bushes and shower trees. The sand soughed and the breeze shimmered with the heat of the day. Castiel could feel it on his skin, eyes closed, sweat gathering between his nostrils and upper lip.

He had returned here several times in the past two weeks. The island’s birds, while still not entirely trusting, were beginning to ignore his presence. They ambled and flitted in easy circles around his back, dragging grass and broken sticks back to their nests. Sometimes, on its way to or from its roost, a bird would pause and stare at Castiel, abandoning whatever had been in its beak to the wind. Castiel suspected, with some amusement, that these creatures had more quickly discerned his true nature than any human he’d yet encountered.

Castiel wiped the back of his hand over the droplets of perspiration that gathered at his chin. When he turned his thoughts inward like this, Jimmy’s physicality—and even a bit of his consciousness—recrudesced. Thus, the bodily discomfort a Midwestern office worker would feel under the Hawaiian sun, and a dull craving for a turkey sandwich, and the tiniest of cracks in a previously unshakeable faith.

_The righteous man._

Castiel shook his head and breathed in the salt air. After an hour of meditation, he was back here.

He hadn’t seen Dean since their talk in the motel bathroom almost two weeks earlier. Castiel had been true to his word—both to Dean and Zachariah—that they would only see each other when his work required it. With the questions he’d had about Dean’s conduit to him more or less answered, he had no reason to return. Or pretext.

“Dean Winchester is saved,” Castiel murmured. The trade winds licked the words from his lips, bore them down the coast and out to the ocean.

Those had been the first words he’d spoken to Dean. Castiel clutched him to his chest as they spiraled up, the ground quivering with broken sound. Once they were clear of the trees, he stretched his wings to their full extent, caught the updraft, and rode it until they were thousands of feet above the Earth, high enough that there were continents and archipelagos of white floating over the blue and brown and green. Dean was delirious, all but unconscious, his soul still fluttering inside the confines of its newborn body. He was an imago struggling with its first breath of the world.

Castiel slowed their flight and looked down at the naked man in his arms. He adjusted the arm that held Dean by the knees; then, more gently, the hand that cradled his neck. Dean’s head drooped against Castiel’s breast and rested there, his shallow breaths clouding the thin atmosphere. Castiel leaned down and pressed his lips to Dean’s brow. The sun was rising over the plains of North America.

“Dean Winchester is saved.” He whispered it into Dean’s skin, and all of Heaven heard. Then he kissed his forehead again, and they began their slow descent to Earth.

Castiel opened his eyes; he squinted in the dazzling afternoon light. The surf was calmer now. The breeze was quieter. Beside his left knee, one of the seabirds had dug out a makeshift roost in the sand. It yawned open its bill and looked up at him.

“Castiel.” The grass crunched behind him.

“Zachariah,” Castiel replied. He turned his head slightly. “I didn’t hear you calling.”

“I didn’t.” Zachariah walked up to Castiel’s right side and peered out at the waves. “How picturesque. I can see why you like it here, Castiel.”

“You have need of me,” Castiel said flatly.

Zachariah demurred. He continued to watch the ocean. He was the sort of superior who, once he sensed overt avidity or impatience, would slow down everything so that none of his words were overlooked.

“How is Dean Winchester doing?” he said finally.

“No better or worse than average, I’d imagine. I haven’t seen him since the incident with Samhain.”

Zachariah cocked his head.

“Or around that time. I only see the brothers when our work brings us together.”

“What did you think of how they handled that?”

“Do you want my honest opinion?”

Zachariah nodded once. “Of course.”

“I respect their decision.” Castiel looked up at him. “But I think we could have done more to aid them.”

“Oh, well.” Zachariah shrugged. “You win some, you lose some.”

Castiel snorted. Even for Zachariah, this was a remarkably flippant statement to make on the eve of the apocalypse.

“I do have some business to discuss with you, as it happens.”

“Very well.” Castiel stood up, dusted off the sand.

“It’s one of ours.”

“Have we lost someone?”

“In a sense, yes. About a quarter-century ago. You’ll have to find her.”

“A quarter—” Castiel swallowed. “No. It can’t be.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I don’t understand. Isn’t she human? Her grace is gone. Does she have to be punished after all this time?”

“If only that were all this is about.”

Castiel turned to him. “What else?”

“She’s regaining some of her nature, Castiel. She can hear us.” Zachariah sighed. “Of course, the demons are already after her.”

“How can she? Without her grace?”

“No idea. I assume it has something to do with our return to Earth en masse.”

“With Dean’s resurrection,” Castiel said softly.

“Maybe there’s enough angel powder in the air that a fallen one can recapture some iota of who she was.”

Castiel rubbed his chin. “I doubt that’s how it works.”

“Well, your guess is as good as mine.” Zachariah turned to him. “It doesn’t matter _how_ it happened; not at this point. What matters is getting to her before the demons have their chance.”

“And when I find her?”

“You know what must be done. It’s the judgment of Heaven.”

After a beat, Castiel looked down at the grass and nodded. “I will.”

“Uriel will accompany you.”

“Very well.” Castiel looked up when Zachariah placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I appreciate that this isn’t easy, Castiel. And maybe you think that I’m asking you to do this because you were close to her, once. Sort of as a test of your loyalty.”

“It hadn’t crossed my mind,” Castiel said evenly.

“But I’m asking you to do this because you’re my best. Because I know you’ll get the job done, no matter what. No other reason.”

Zachariah flew off. The bird roosting next to Castiel looked up from its slumber, then returned to it.

He hadn’t believed that last part, of course. Zachariah had a reputation for pettiness. Was the paragon of it, even. Making sure that Castiel was the one to lead Anna’s capture and execution, when he knew that Castiel had felt closer to her than any of the others in their garrison back then, was an ironic grace note that he would never have been able to resist.

He called to Uriel, arranged to meet him. Then, he sat down next to the sleeping bird again and watched it. Even while at rest, its heart seemed to beat impossibly fast.

Dean hadn’t been sleeping any better. Each night, Castiel would feel twinges and pangs: usually minor enough to ignore; occasionally sharper, more bracing. One afternoon a few days ago, he’d been tracking a demon through the border towns of the Rio Grande Valley when an unexpected vision of Dean’s torment in Hell pricked him. He stopped in the middle of a dry streambed and closed his eyes. He wondered why Dean was sleeping in the middle of the day and worried about his safety. He thought, for a fleeting moment, about abandoning his hunt for the demon to go to Dean. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the nightmare was gone, and Castiel continued on his mission.

“After this,” Castiel whispered. After dealing with Anna, he would check on Dean. He resented that he was being made to dispatch her, but after he did, no one would be able to seriously question his focus, or his loyalty.

He looked down at the sleeping bird for a while longer before taking to the wind.

* * *

Castiel touched down at the spot where Anna’s grace had plummeted to Earth and, not sensing Uriel’s presence anywhere nearby, decided to take a moment to reorient himself. It was later here than in Hawaii. Only a few weeks remained until winter: the sky was already dark over northern Kentucky, and the evening air was damp and quiet and cold. Castiel walked towards the towering oak, admiring its lush, winding branches. In defiance of the season, it still retained most of its leaves.

Despite the grace’s absence, he could feel Anna’s spirit palpably. Castiel reached out, laid his palm on the bark.

“Anna,” he had said, on the last day they’d seen each other. “This is wrong.”

“It isn’t, Castiel.” She was resting on the ground as he hovered uneasily back and forth.

“It _is_ ,” he said. “You’re disobeying God.”

“I don’t think I am.”

Castiel laughed at that, and Anna gave him a queer look. Back then, before Jimmy, before Dean, Castiel had laughed even more seldom.

“You ‘don’t think you are.’ Right.”

“Think about it, Castiel. Have you ever seen Father? Have you even heard his voice?”

“I don’t have to see him to know he’s there.”

“You just know?”

“Yes. Faith is—”

“Belief in things unseen?” Anna shook her head. “That won’t cut it anymore.”

Castiel looked away and sighed.

“Heaven isn’t right, Castiel. It hasn’t been right for a very long time. Can’t you see it?”

“I don’t know. It’s never been the most pleasant place.”

“And why is that?”

Castiel stopped floating, came to rest across from Anna. “I’ve confided in you about this before. With our siblings, it’s like there’s always a scheme going on. You consider someone a friend until, one day, he starts treating you like a pariah. And so many secrets—”

“Castiel,” Anna said, reaching for his hand. “The humans don’t treat their siblings like that. They love and cherish them. Protect them. They’re loyal to them.”

Castiel looked down at their hands. “What about you and I? Isn’t that how we treat each other?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Then why do this? If you leave Heaven, you’re not just leaving the others. You’re leaving me, too.”

“Not if you come with me.”

Castiel’s eyes widened. He withdrew his hand.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Think about it, Castiel. We can leave together. You’re the only one I trust enough to tell. You’re the only one I’d miss.”

He sat and stared for a very long time.

“This is crazy, Anna,” he finally said.

She shook her head. “No, what’s crazy is staying here. Taking orders from our power-drunk siblings. Becoming as twisted as they are. The humans—they’ve been around for a speck of the cosmic timeline, yet they understand family better than any of us do.”

“You don’t know anything about being human!”

“I know that they’re happier than we are,” Anna said. She rose up and walked to the edge of the esplanade. Below lay the dipping and turning of the constellations and the skies of Earth. “I know that they have more freedom than us.”

“They are not free,” Castiel said. “They’re slaves to their desires. Trapped by their suffering.”

“But they can still _choose_. We don’t even get that.”

“Free will is an illusion,” Castiel said.

Anna looked down at the world. She breathed in, deep and slow, before turning to him again.

“I wish I could wait for you to be ready,” she said. “I could deprogram you, open your eyes—”

“Don’t patronize me, Anna.”

“But I have to do this now. For myself. It’s the only way I know to be—”

“What?”

She clasped her hands over her chest. “To be free.”

Castiel swallowed; his fingers gripped the oak tree’s rough, earthy bark. It had taken him twenty-three years, but he was starting to understand some of the things Anna had said to him that day.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? You can almost feel her presence.”

Castiel looked over his shoulder at Uriel’s voice and dropped his hand. “Uriel. I didn’t notice you.”

“I just got here. I didn’t want to…disturb your thoughts.”

“Don’t worry about me. Are you ready?”

Uriel glanced up at the tree’s canopy, then returned his eyes to Castiel. “Are you, Castiel?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Uriel gave Castiel a gesture of nonchalance.

“I was just thinking about her,” Castiel said, as Uriel began circling the tree. “It was only a moment ago that she fell, yet it feels like so much has happened since then.”

“Well,” Uriel said, letting out a long breath. “The two of you were close.”

“Do you miss her?”

Uriel stopped somewhere behind Castiel. “No.”

“I do.”

“I know you do, Castiel.”

“In spite of what she did, she was strong. Courageous. Incorruptible.”

“Aren’t we all?” Uriel stood beside him. He had come closer than he would normally, and Castiel looked askance at him.

“Of course,” Castiel replied. “Shall we go?”

“If you’re prepared. She’s in a barn at the other end of Ohio.”

“I sense her too. That’s concerning. It means she’s recovered more of who she is than I thought.”

“Not enough,” Uriel said. He thumbed a faint bulge over his breastbone.

“I wish you wouldn’t carry that around. It’s macabre.”

Uriel shrugged. “Never know when I might need it.”

“I doubt you’ll ever have need of it.”

Before Uriel could respond, Castiel closed his eyes. He had been directing his thoughts towards Anna, divining her location and her condition, but an unexpected glimmer beside her startled him. Stopped him in his tracks.

“Dean is with her,” Castiel mumbled. He opened his eyes.

“Dean Winchester?” Uriel chuckled. “Lovely.”

“You’re amused?”

“A bit, Castiel. A bit. I get to tie up an embarrassing loose end _and_ I have an excuse to teach your little human plaything a lesson. It’s killing two birds with one stone.”

Castiel glowered at him. “You dare—”

“Metaphorically, in the latter case. Of course.” Uriel raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement.

“Don’t harm Dean. Or Sam. This doesn’t have anything to do with them.”

“I won’t kill them.”

“Uriel,” Castiel said sternly.

“What? A little angelic beatdown might do them good. Especially the older brother.” Uriel shook his head in disgust. “He’s a mouthy one. After all you’ve done for him, why let him speak to you in that way?”

Castiel leaned back into the trunk of the oak. “Uriel, we are immortal. They are young. We are mighty. They are fragile. We are righteous. They are trapped in sin. We hold the secrets of the cosmos. They are ignorant.” He crossed his arms and tilted his head back to the stars. “To feel anger towards humans, to strike out at them, is violence without purpose. It is cruelty. The powerful should be the first to turn the other cheek.”

“Well.” Uriel’s expression was inscrutable. “Aren’t you a big softy.”

“We have our mission. Anna has to die; Heaven demands it. If the Winchesters intervene, pacify them. We may have to work with them in the future. That’s all that needs to be said.”

He stepped around Uriel and walked towards the county road.

“You’re not feeling emotions again, are you? Brother?”

“I’m saying this for your sake.”

“My sake,” he scoffed.

“Michael wants Dean to accept him. Your constant antagonism isn’t helping with that.”

“Right.” Uriel stopped at the head of the trail and peered at Castiel in the moonlight. “And all this concern, it’s for Michael’s sake, is it?”

“Of course it is.” Castiel averted his eyes, turning them back to Anna’s tree. “What else would it be?”

Uriel watched him for a while. Castiel counted the oak’s boughs, then its branches, avoiding Uriel’s gaze.

“I have no idea,” Uriel said. “I’ll wait for you outside of their hiding place.”

Castiel nodded once, and Uriel was gone.

The moon sat in the tree’s crown of leaves, watching Castiel more than he was watching it. He breathed in deeply and looked around at the rustling field of sedge, then turned his eyes to the heavens.

“You’re making a terrible mistake,” Castiel had said. He held Anna to his chest. He didn’t want to ever let her go.

“I’m not. I know I’m not, Castiel.” Anna released him from the embrace. “I hope that, one day, you’ll understand. And maybe even come to the same conclusion as me. I’d love to see you again; you might even be my brother.” She gave him the wry smile that they’d been exchanging for millions of years when the other angels weren’t looking.

He bowed his head and prepared to fly away. He wouldn’t stop her, but he couldn’t watch what she was about to do.

“I’ll go to Hell before I do that, Anna.”

Castiel bit his lip at the memory. He felt like a prophet; he felt like a fool.

Uriel was waiting for him, but the oak’s silhouette in the moonglow was beautiful. Castiel took a few seconds to commit it to memory before he departed, adding it to the long, slow march of his past.

* * *

Castiel woke up with a gasp. It was night; the air was cold and dry. The umber spines of an ocotillo bush beside his head shook in the desert breeze. By the position of the moon and the transit of Venus, he could tell that he had been incapacitated for about three hours.

_I should have seen that coming_ , Castiel thought. He smiled up ruefully at the firmament.

With great effort, Castiel sat up. Everything hurt, and it would take at least an hour for him to gather enough strength to heal completely. Not only that: Jimmy was upset and confused. It was the first time he’d experienced banishment.

Castiel rubbed his aching neck and scanned his surroundings. He was at the summit of a small hillock covered in leatherweed and ocotillo; around him in every direction, the broken tablelands of northeastern New Mexico stretched to the horizon. The violet ribbon of the Milky Way wrapped around a sky that was almost as abundant with stars as the panorama in Heaven.

He didn’t feel strong enough to stand up yet. There was no reason to, either: until he had recovered to the point of being able to fight, here was just as good a place as any. There was still a mission to see through.

Castiel had known, of course, that Dean would act the way he had. His instinct to protect was so ingrained that impossible odds only made him dig his heels in further. It was one of the things that Castiel liked about him. Most of the time, anyway.

With a sigh of frustration, Castiel lay back on the carpet of leatherweed. He shut his eyes and searched for Dean.

He was sleeping, agitated but exhausted, in the passenger seat of the Impala. Troubled, but not because of Hell.

Castiel calmed his breathing and walked into Dean’s dream.

He was sitting in the corner booth of the Café Sonámbulo, reading the menu. The server poured him coffee and set down a small pitcher of milk; he gave her a friendly nod. Castiel stared at him through the window, then walked through the pine door.

“ _Buen—”_

“I’m meeting someone,” Castiel said, and hobbled past her.

“Cass?” Dean dropped the menu and stood up.

Castiel collapsed into the seat across from him. “Do you have any idea how much it hurts to be banished?”

Dean blinked and swallowed.

“I’m lying in the middle of nowhere in New Mexico right now. Too weak to heal myself, or fly.”

“Sorry, buddy.” Dean sat down. “Not a lot of sympathy here. You did kind of try to kill us.”

“No, I didn’t, Dean.”

The server leaned in to fill Castiel’s mug with coffee. She wavered with the menu, then handed it to him.

“Well, you didn’t keep Uriel on a very tight leash. I’ve got the sore jaw to prove it.”

Castiel waved his hand dismissively. “If Uriel wanted to kill you, he could do it with a flick of his wrist. What are the two of you doing consorting with a demon, anyway?”

“Ask Sam.” Dean shook his head, took a long swig of coffee.

“You should have let Uriel send her back to Hell. I’m not surprised that Sam was taken in by her charms, but I thought you had a little more probity.”

“Hold up just a minute, Cass. She saved Sam’s life more than once while I was in the pit. And _she_ wasn’t the one attacking us tonight. You were.” He closed his menu and scowled out at the street. “To be honest, I’m not sure I trust you more than her right now.”

“Then you’re a simpleton.”

Dean snorted and shook his head.

“Dean, a demon never does anything without a reason. They’re not driven by altruism, or love, or whatever your brother thinks she feels for him—”

“You think I don’t know that? I’m not an idiot, Cass.”

“Then stop acting like one.” Castiel sat forward, trying to catch Dean’s gaze. “I bet she was the one who told you about Anna, isn’t she?”

Dean nodded reluctantly.

“Did you wonder at all why?”

“Of course I did, Cass. But demons are after an innocent person. They killed her family. And now I find out you guys want her dead? What did she do that was so bad?”

“It’s better that you don’t know. Trust me.”

The server stopped beside Dean. “Ready to order?”

“I’ll have the chilaquiles, chicken, green. He’ll have a breakfast burrito with beef and red.” Dean handed her the menus. “He’s getting a little skinny.”

Castiel watched her walk to the kitchen, then turned back to Dean.

“I thought a burrito might shut you up for a while.” Dean shrugged. He glanced up at the speakers. “I love this song, by the way. ‘Shooting Star’ by Bad Company? Good taste, Cass.”

“This isn’t a joke, Dean. You’re inserting yourself into something that isn’t your business.”

“Then tell me what’s going on, Cass.” He flicked his eyes to Castiel’s mug. “Or drink your coffee and shut up.”

Castiel lifted the coffee to his lips. It was bitter, but rich and floral underneath that. Somewhere inside of him, Jimmy noted the flavor with pleasure.

“Choosing to be stubborn, huh?” Dean sat back in the booth. One of his legs knocked into Castiel’s. “To tell the truth, it’s probably what I would do.”

Castiel drained his entire cup before looking at Dean again. “I have to carry out my orders, Dean.”

“Again with your fucking orders.”

“The sooner you hand Anna over to us, the sooner this can all be over. The sooner we can go back to being on the same side.”

Dean watched him with a mix of emotions. There were too many for Castiel to identify them all. Amazement, fear, doubt, resentment, disgust. Most surprising of all, he was feeling pity.

“Cass. You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, Dean, I do.”

“No. No! You can think for yourself for once, you sorry bastard.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and looked down at his empty coffee cup.

“Cass, I can tell that—that there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to do this. There’s a part of you that knows this is wrong, man.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.” Dean laughed; it was genuinely mirthful. Castiel looked up in alarm. “That’s the thing, I’m not.”

The server arrived with their food, forcing a pause in the conversation. Castiel watched Dean’s expression. Something _was_ different, but he wasn’t sure what. Dean wouldn’t stop staring at him. His eyes were filled with wonder.

“I realized, as we’ve been sitting here talking, that I can, like, feel you for the first time. Feel _you_.”

Castiel frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You know our whole little special bond thing? The one that lets me know when you’re nearby, the one you hear me through?”

“What about it?”

“Well, I think I’m hearing _you_ through it for the first time.” Dean’s voice was soft, barely a murmur. His mouth was slack. “God, Cass, I thought you were a robot—”

Castiel closed his eyes in consternation. It made sense. In his weakened state, he didn’t have the strength to shield all of his thoughts and emotions from others. Especially Dean.

“Please,” Castiel whispered. “Please, don’t look.”

“I’m not, Cass. It’s all just…washing over me.”

Castiel breathed in slow, trying to restrain the galloping of his mind, the soaring of his heart.

“You don’t want to kill Anna,” Dean said. “You loved her.”

“Dean, stop.” Castiel gulped down a breath. His eyes stung.

“Cass—"

When Castiel felt Dean’s fingers on the back of his hand, he shook, opened his eyes, and sat up with a gasp in New Mexico. The ocotillo bush rattled with a drought wind. In the east, the first blues and grays of dawn painted the edge of the sky.

Castiel scrambled up; he was steady enough to walk now. He limped to the side of the hillock that faced the impending sun and surveyed the land. There was nothing for miles and miles, not even a ghost town or a dirt road. The clearest, closest thing in the entire world was Dean, asleep in a car halfway across the continent.

At the corner of Castiel’s vision, a star streaked silently down to Earth. He turned in time to catch the last second of its fall: the final glorious moment before it burned too white-hot and disintegrated into the dust of the universe. Castiel watched the spot of empty sky, regretting the fate of shooting stars, until the sun had climbed over the mesas and everything was light again.


	7. To Be Alone with You

“Oh, baby. I need this so bad.” Dean closed his eyes and groaned in ecstasy.

“Dude,” Sam said from behind him. “I’m trying to eat here.”

Dean looked over his shoulder. Sam was dangling a forkful of salad over his plate, staring into the glare of his laptop.

“You call that eating?” Dean scoffed. He twisted the stove off. “Maybe if you were a deer, Sammy.”

Sam grunted and continued reading the screen.

“What are you reading, anyway?” Dean sat down across from Sam and started assembling his bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich.

“Just trawling the web for angel lore,” Sam said, in a faraway voice.

“Angel lore.”

“Yeah. I want to know why they’re after Anna.”

“Isn’t that why I’m about to drive seven hours to pick up Pamela?” Dean took a ravenous bite of his BLT.

“Sure, but it’s not just that.”

“What, then?” Dean said, through a mouthful of food.

“Dean.” Sam put down his fork and slumped back in his chair. “How much do you trust Cass?”

Dean’s chewing slowed. He thought back to the previous morning: the dreamtalk he’d had with Castiel while Sam was driving the four of them across northern Indiana.

“I don’t trust anyone, Sam. You know that. Except you and Bobby.”

“I just—I want to believe he’s a good guy, I do. And I know he’s the reason you’re alive again. But I don’t know, Dean. What he was going to do to Anna? He didn’t even flinch. Somehow when I pictured angels, I didn’t think of the Terminator.”

Dean swallowed and looked down at his plate.

“Dean?”

“Let’s just focus on figuring out what’s going on. We don’t even know what Anna’s deal is yet. For all we know, she might be pulling a Britney.” Dean crunched into his sandwich.

Sam gave him a quizzical look.

“’Not that innocent.’”

“So you’re blaming her?”

“No.”

“It sounds like you are, Dean.”

“Look, I’m just saying, I don’t want to fight angels if we can help it. We don’t know what we’ve stepped into here. I’m willing to give Cass the benefit of the doubt until we find out the truth.”

“I don’t know if I can, Dean.”

“Oh, so you assume the best intentions when it comes to a demon chick, but an angel’s a bridge too far for you?”

Sam turned back to his computer screen. “Not this again.”

“Let me guess.” Dean sipped his coffee out of a cup that was more a jug than a mug. He needed the caffeine to get through the drive to Pamela’s house. “Little Sammy down there thinks Ruby’s on the up and up.”

“And you’re so unbiased when it comes to Castiel?”

Dean choked on his sandwich. He took a minute to hold it in his mouth, chew, and swallow.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Well, he did rescue you from the Pit. And I owe Ruby _my_ life.”

“There’s one big, huge, major difference between you and Ruby and me and Cass, Sam.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Sure, but I still don’t think you’re the most neutral person when it comes to evaluating his intentions.”

Ruby stepped out of the corner of the living room. She walked through the doorway to the kitchen and leaned against the counter.

“I agree with Sam,” she said.

“Of course you do,” Dean replied. “How long have you been eavesdropping for?”

“I wasn’t. I just didn’t want to interrupt you guys.” Ruby met Dean’s glare with one of her own. “Dean, they tried to kill me. Sorry if I’m not their biggest fan.”

“Well, they’re angels, you’re a demon. Call it an occupational hazard. Make a workers’ compensation claim the next time you’re in Hell.” Dean crammed the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth with both hands.

“Thanks for the tip, Erin Brockovich.”

“Ruby, how’s Anna doing?” Sam said, turning to her.

“She’s eating the food I brought her. I think she’s handling things pretty well. For now, at least.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t have a lot of time before they’re back,” Dean said.

Sam and Ruby both turned to him.

“Dean, Ruby made hex bags for all of us,” Sam said, furrowing his brow.

Dean brought his coffee to his mouth and drank for a long time. Would Ruby’s witchcraft nullify the conduit between him and Castiel? Maybe their bond was completely separate from the standard way supernatural entities located mortals. Castiel himself had seemed confounded by it, back in the motel bathroom.

“I just mean that Castiel knows about Bobby,” Dean finally said. “He was there when we first met in that barn in Illinois. They’ll start narrowing down the places we could be; once they do a little legwork, they’ll figure out where Bobby’s place is.”

Dean sipped the lukewarm coffee at the bottom of the mug. He’d have to be more upfront with Sam about Castiel at some point, but he certainly wasn’t going to do it while a demon was in the room.

“He’s right,” Ruby said. “They’ll find us eventually. Which is why we need to move quickly.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean wiped his face with a napkin and stood up. “I’m going now.”

Sam looked up at him. “You sure you don’t want me to come with? We can share the driving.”

“Nah. I’ll just crash when I get back. You keep on keeping on with your extra credit project on angels.”

“It’s because he doesn’t trust me here alone with Anna,” Ruby said.

“Nonsense.” Dean got his jacket on, smoothed down the sleeves, and sauntered to the front door. “Now, you two kids behave yourselves. You should probably, uh, keep everything nice and zipped up. Never know when Bobby will get back.”

“Dean, please.”

“Your brother is a child.”

* * *

Anna coughed into Dean’s skin and sat up. Her hair looked wet and washed-out in the clouded moonlight.

“You alright?” Dean dropped the condom into the garbage bag on the floor.

“Yeah.” She began to dress herself. “It’s just a little stuffy.”

He looked at the fogged windows of the Impala and nodded.

“How about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah.” She finished with buttoning her blouse, glanced at him. “You alright?”

Dean grinned. “Hey, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You don’t have to put on a front, you know.”

“Sorry, what?”

“If you’re nervous. Scared. About the angels and demons. Heaven and hell? You can talk to me.”

“Thanks,” Dean said dismissively. He lifted his hips to get his jeans on.

“Figured I’d offer.”

Dean looked down at his shoulder for a few seconds. He fingered his amulet.

“Actually, now that you have all your memories back, I’m wondering, uh.” Dean looked across the back seat at her. “Can you tell me about Cass?”

“Castiel?”

“Yeah,” he said. He looked down, into the shadows between them.

“He's the one who saved you, isn’t he? It was his voice I heard, the first time the angels started speaking on Earth again. I didn’t recognize him at the time, but I could tell there was something familiar about it.”

“So, you knew him?”

“Like I told you, we worked together.”

“Is that it?”

“No. He’s also my brother, obviously.”

“Right. You’re all brothers and sisters up there.”

“We were close.” Anna stared through the car’s windshield, her eyes glassy with reminiscences. “I felt closer to him than anyone else up there. He almost convinced me not to fall.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “When you say you were…’close’—"

“No, Dean.” Anna threw him a look of revulsion. “We weren’t sleeping together. We’re siblings.”

“Hey,” Dean said, shrugging. “If the only people around for your entire life are your siblings? I mean, I don’t know how you guys get your kicks. Figured I’d ask.”

“Right,” Anna said slowly. ‘Hey, don’t you and Sam spend every waking moment with each other?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Forget I said anything.”

“Gladly. So, what do you want to know about Castiel?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe—”

“Although, I have to say,” she interrupted. “Being prodded with questions about my brother isn’t exactly my idea of postcoital bliss.”

“Sorry,” Dean said gamely. “I’m not a big cuddler.”

“I gathered that.”

Dean turned in the seat to face her. He relaxed back into the car door.

“So,” Dean said. “I’m just wondering: what’s his deal?”

“Er, I’m going to need a little more than that, Dean.”

“Like, half the time he’s this robot assassin douche; the other half, he’s following me around like my guardian angel. I don’t get it.”

“Very human of you.” Anna shook her head. “Castiel’s never going to be your guardian angel, Dean. That’s one thing I’m sure of.”

Dean shrugged. He wasn’t going to tell her about the dreams he shared with Castiel, but he wondered what she would say if he did.

“Dean, he’s a soldier. He’ll carry out any order Heaven gives him, no matter what reservations he might have. He’d snap your neck without a second thought if Heaven commanded it.”

It wasn’t just the dreams. There was also the Super 8 parking lot on the east bank of the Missouri River. And the mirror of the motel bathroom in central Illinois. Castiel hadn’t seemed like a murder robot at those times.

“You don’t believe me,” Anna said, watching him.

“No. I mean, yeah, I believe you.” Dean pulled his T-shirt over his head, eased his arms through, adjusted his necklace. “I just figured I’d ask, that’s all.”

“What sparked your curiosity?”

He pouted his lips. “Don’t know.”

“Is it just because he saved you from Hell? Is that why you think he’s your buddy now?”

“I don’t know,” Dean repeated. “I guess I just…see him a lot.”

“That’s not vague at all.”

“Who’s prodding whom with questions now?”

“Fair point.” They smiled at each other across the width of the car.

“You want to—” Dean flicked his chin towards the house.

“Yeah. I should probably take a shower.” Anna smoothed down her top. “I figure I should look my best. Just in case Sam’s plan doesn’t work out.”

“Anna.”

“Dean, please.” She pulled at the door handle. “Save the pep talk. I’m not one of the hapless civilians you’re used to protecting. I know the score.”

Dean got out of the car and walked around the back. They trudged down the path to the scrapyard.

“Is there any way—I’m just going to put this out there. Is there any way we could talk to Cass? Reason with him?”

“No.”

“But we haven’t tried.”

Anna gave him an irritated look. “There’s no way, alright? The angels don’t play ball with anyone down here. They deliver absolute verdicts. That’s kind of their defining feature. One of the reasons I left.”

“Maybe—” Dean stopped at the arch over the entrance to the scrapyard. “Maybe Cass isn’t like the other angels.”

“You think you know Castiel?” Anna crossed her arms; her skin looked unnaturally pale, almost translucent. “You met him five minutes ago. Let me tell you about my favorite brother. When I told him I was going to fall, I pleaded with him to come with me. Every argument you think you’re going to use to win him over? I tried them all. He wouldn’t budge.”

“Maybe he will now. It’s been a while.”

“You’re not getting it, Dean. He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t bend. Ever. He’s kind of known for that among our kind.”

“The prissy angel with a stick up his ass?” Dean chuckled. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Anna stared off into the night for a while before speaking again. “If he wouldn’t disobey Heaven when he knew it meant never seeing me again, he’s not going to rebel for you just because you ask nicely.”

“Well, I was going to offer him some heavy petting to sweeten the pot.”

“Come on.” She rolled her eyes and started walking through the maze of totaled vehicles. “I need a drink and a shower.”

Sam was standing on the front porch, leaning against one of the white wooden columns. He looked at Dean, then Anna, then shook his head at Dean, smirking.

“You look tired there, Sammy,” Dean said.

“Thanks, Dean.” He straightened up. “I fell asleep doing research. Ruby’s gone. I thought she’d wake me up before she left.”

“She’s brave,” Anna said.

“Yeah,” Sam said.

“Nevertheless, you shouldn’t trust her.” Anna pulled open the screen door. “Maybe your goals align right now, but she’s still a demon.”

Sam frowned. “Thanks for the advice.”

Anna glanced at Dean, then walked into the house and ascended the stairs.

“Ruby’s putting herself in danger right now to save _her_ life,” Sam muttered. “You’d think she’d drop the holier-than-thou attitude.”

Dean opened the door. “I guess you can take the angel out of Heaven, but you can’t take Heaven out of the angel.”

“I guess you’d know.” Sam followed him in. “You didn’t waste any time.”

“Come again?” Dean stopped at Bobby’s desk, where Sam had set up his laptop and a battery of tomes on Christian theology.

“You and Anna. And your ‘seven minutes in heaven’ just now.”

“Hey! It lasted way longer than seven minutes.”

“You're sure it’s the best idea? I mean, she’s an angel—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Dean held up his hands. “You’ve been doing the horizontal mambo with a demon chick for months, and you’re lecturing _me_?”

Sam put his hands on his hips. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Sure you do.” Dean snorted. He looked down at Sam’s computer. “What are you listening to?”

“Sufjan Stevens,” Sam sighed. He sat down tentatively on the edge of the chair and began to sort through the pile of open books underneath the lamp. “I thought some spiritual music would go with the subject matter.”

“It’s awful.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t all have the musical taste of an aging trucker, Dean.”

“I got to say, Sammy, this stuff is exactly what I picture kids at Stanford listening to.” Dean tickled the back of Sam’s neck.

Sam batted his hand away. “So what?”

“You fit right in there, didn’t you? Scarves, pumpkin spice lattes, the whole metrosexual lifestyle?”

“Dean,” Sam said evenly. “You’re not going to get a rise out of me. You know why?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I’m secure in my sexuality.” Sam fished one of the slimmer volumes out of the stack and stood up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam shrugged, started walking to the kitchen.

“Sam?” Dean called after him. “I’m—I’m secure in my sexuality.”

“Of course you are, Dean.” Sam opened the refrigerator and peered in.

“Come on, Sammy. You seriously think you out-macho me?” Dean fluttered his lips. “Please.”

“I don’t even know if I can stomach anything,” Sam said. He shut the refrigerator and straightened up. “I wish I knew how Ruby’s doing.”

Dean took Sam’s place at the desk and relaxed back into Bobby’s chair. He watched Sam as he paced back and forth across the kitchen, from the fluorescent bulb above the table to the slats of moonbeam above the sink. He’d left his iTunes playing.

“Dean, you know Alastair,” Sam was saying. “Do you think—I mean, what do you think he’s doing to her?”

Dean looked down at his hands. A new track, a quieter one, had begun.

“I know you said you wouldn’t talk about what happened down there.”

“Then why ask?” Dean said, without looking up.

“Alright, sorry.”

Sam’s voice sounded small, like it was coming from the other end of a long tunnel. He opened the refrigerator again. In the wall behind Dean, the liquid in the pipes slowed, then went silent. Anna had finished her shower. Dean couldn’t talk to Sam, so he listened to Sam’s music.

_To be alone with me you went up on the tree._

_I’ve never known a man who loved me._

All that was left was the waiting. He would pray at dawn, and Castiel would come.

* * *

Darkness.

He couldn’t see anything, but that had stopped fazing him after year three or four in the Pit. His eyes had been skewered, gouged out, dissolved, and exploded so many times that blindness was not only a mundanity; it was a reprieve. Not having to bear witness was a mercy. The demons knew that, but they derived too much pleasure from destroying Dean’s eyes to stop. They hated those eyes, and he’d be theirs for eternity—or something close enough. There would be time for everything.

Then, one day, a sun came. Without a shred of tissue in his eye sockets, he saw it: a blazing light that lanced down into the shade. There was a flare, a phosphorescence; and a dry wind burst through his shackles; and everything around him fled. He fell to the mud and caught his breath. He crawled to the light, and it embraced him, enveloped him. The murk and fire fell away, and he felt the exquisite pain of every piece of himself he’d lost in the last forty years slotting back into place, one by one by one.

“Open your eyes,” said the light.

Dean gasped. Through the heavy branches of the sweet chestnut tree above his head, the sky was bright and clear. He stared up into the blue, licking out his tongue to taste the cool breeze.

After a while, he sat up with a grunt. He was sitting on a short jetty constructed from fresh cedar, halfway between either end. A broad and shallow lake opened up around him: an ellipse of transparent, sun-pierced water, at the bottom of which lay thousands of smooth stones. At one of the ends of the oval, a stream brought in snowmelt from the distant peaks; at the other, the lake narrowed into the rapids that climbed down the foothills and disappeared into the woods below them.

Dean smiled as he took it all in.

“I thought about leaving you in Hell just now,” the light said. “I could have. Maybe I should have.”

Dean scrambled up and turned around. Castiel was leaning against the tree that was closest to the lake, arms crossed, his eyes gazing down into the valley.

“Cass.” Dean walked up to him. His legs were unsteady on the dirt path. His mind was recohering, fitting boundless fear and hope onto the thread of linear time. The leaves of the chestnuts whispered in the wind.

“You’re mad at me,” Dean said.

Castiel let out a short breath through his nose. His teeth clenched together under the thin stubble of his cheek.

“Look, Cass, I’ll tell you right now. The silent treatment? Doesn’t work on me.”

“Shut up,” Castiel said. His voice pitched with raw fury.

Dean swallowed and tracked Castiel’s line of sight to the hollow below. A veil of mist, yet unburned by the sun, hung over the river that traced the valley floor.

“You lied,” Castiel said softly. His voice had returned to its standard monotone. “I trusted you, and you lied.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“I’m never that gullible,” Castiel said, still staring off into the distance. It sounded like he wasn’t addressing Dean at all.

“Cass, I’m not going to apologize.”

Castiel snorted and finally looked at him. “Of course you won’t. You’re an arrogant, impulsive, frightened little boy. You cling to bravado so you don’t have to confront your crippling insecurities.”

“Wow, Cass.” Dean nodded, took a step back. “Why not tell me what you really think?”

“Do you have any idea of the trouble you’ve caused for me?” Castiel pushed himself away from the tree and made his way to Dean. His steps were slow and measured. “Heaven is scandalized. Other angels are openly questioning my competence. Zachariah is threatening to demote me. And for all I know, Anna could be plotting to visit revenge on me at any time.”

Dean leaned back as Castiel stopped before him, his chest almost flush with his own. “Do you want me to explain my side of this, or do you just feel like tearing me a new asshole?”

“Go ahead.” Castiel took in a deep breath. He turned and walked down the jetty.

“I thought I was doing the best thing for everyone,” Dean began, following Castiel’s steps.

“Utterly ridiculous,” Castiel commented.

“Just hear me out, alright?”

Castiel had reached the end of the pier. He lifted a hand in acquiescence.

“I was always going to try to save Anna, Cass. You had to have known that.”

“Part of me hoped that I’d gotten through to you the last time we talked.”

“You did. Just not in the way you thought.”

Castiel looked over his shoulder. In the harsh light that bounced off the surface of the lake, his profile was angular, severe.

“Sam and I wanted to save Anna, and I knew from my dream with you that you didn’t want to kill her. Not really. We also had a separate problem, which is that Alastair was hunting us. Now, he’s a bad son of a bitch. Sam’s powers didn’t work; the knife barely made him flinch. So, Sam figured that if we got you and Uriel in the same room with him, you’d do the ganking for us.”

“And Anna?”

“I had a hunch that it was either you or Uriel who’d taken Anna’s grace from the tree. If I’d been wrong, well—at least the demons would be taken care of, and maybe we’d think of something on the fly. When Uriel entered my dream and _showed_ me her grace, it made the plan that much easier.”

Castiel cleared his throat. “I see.”

“Thing is, Cass, I knew I had to do it in a way that left you in the dark. If I’d told you, you’d have had to choose between Heaven and us, and I didn’t want to do that to you.”

“Us?”

“Yeah. Sam, Anna, and me.”

Castiel let out a clipped laugh. He shook his head. “Don’t try to frame this as an act of altruism. How naïve do you think I am?”

“I’m telling the truth, Cass.” Dean took a step forward. His shoulder brushed Castiel’s.

“So, your insistence on helping Anna, your reckless defiance of the judgment of Heaven, had nothing to do with the two of you being intimate?”

“No, it had nothing to do with that. I’d do the same thing for any innocent person.”

“And you get to decide guilt and innocence?”

“Cass, we can keep on doing this dance, but I know how you really feel. I saw it the last time we talked, remember? You didn’t want to have to kill her.”

Castiel looked down at the lake. Dean leaned forward, peered into their reflection on the still water, and caught Castiel’s gaze.

“What am I thinking now, then, Dean?”

Dean grimaced. “I don’t know. I’m not getting anything from you at the moment.”

“Good,” Castiel replied.

“Look, Cass. Technically, I only lied to Uriel, not you.”

“Dean. This isn’t about me being personally offended. You brazenly worked with a demon to lure other demons to us. They could have captured a fallen angel and dealt a serious blow to the entire Heavenly host. Alastair almost destroyed my vessel, and I was nearly banished.”

“And I saved you from that.”

Castiel turned to him and seethed. “You only had to ‘save me’ because you brought that abominable mess to my doorstep in the first place!”

“How was I supposed to know you wouldn’t have the juice to ice Alastair? You’re the most powerful thing I’ve ever seen. I thought it’d be a cakewalk for you.”

“Enough. You better hope that this all blows over in Heaven, Dean. Because if I get reassigned, or recalled, I can guarantee you that the angel who replaces me won’t be as indulgent with you as I’ve been.”

Dean stiffened his spine and glared down at Castiel. “You know what, Cass? Be mad with me all you want, but I’m not the only bad guy here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You threatened Sam!”

“I didn’t do that.” Castiel averted his eyes, watched the ripples on the water again. “That was Uriel acting on…his own initiative. I only found out about it after the fact.”

“Oh.” Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. “Well, you didn’t have any problem with going along with it when you found out, did you?”

“I wanted to try talking to you again.” He sighed. “I was overruled, which is where the threat to cast you back to Hell came from. I knew all along that that wouldn’t sway you.”

“You _do_ know me,” Dean quipped.

“But if you’d remained recalcitrant, yes. I would have eventually offered to exchange Sam’s life for Anna’s.”

“You’d do that to me?”

“If it came down to it, I would. I have to think of the bigger picture, even if you won’t.”

“What does killing Anna have to do with the bigger picture?” Dean shook his head. “You know what, Cass, don’t bother answering that. It’s like she said. You don’t know what it’s like to feel. You don’t know how much it hurts to lose family.”

He turned around and lifted his eyes to the mountains. He listened to the faint gurgling of the river. It was a long time before Castiel spoke again.

“Anna was wrong about me,” Castiel said. “I do feel.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s more, Dean, you know I do. You saw it for yourself, in my moment of weakness.” Castiel gripped Dean’s shoulder and spun him around. He held fast to him as he staggered and almost lost his footing.

“What are you—”

“You say that I don’t know how much it hurts to lose family?” Castiel unhanded him roughly. “You say that to me when you saw Anna’s place in my heart?”

Dean watched him warily. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear that Castiel looked close to tears.

“I do feel, Dean.”

The two of them stood on the dock, breathing in the crisp montane air and the resinous smell of cedar underfoot. The sun was hot on Dean’s bare forearms, the back of his neck, the sensitive spot on his shoulder that warmed through the fabric of his black T-shirt more quickly than the rest. Dean stared down Castiel’s sky-blue eyes: first in defiance; then, because he couldn’t look away.

“What do you feel, Cass?”

Castiel breathed in. He looked out across the lake, all the way to the indistinct, impressionistic forest on the opposite shore. His chestnut-brown hair, still disheveled from the downburst when Anna had regained her grace, fluttered in the breeze.

“I feel…. You. This. Us.”

He seemed taken aback to hear this come out of his mouth, which tempered Dean’s own surprise.

“What—what the hell does that mean, Cass?”

Castiel tilted his head. He squinted into the sunshine.

“I’m not sure,” Castiel murmured. He glanced at Dean, and his lips parted slightly. Then, with an abrupt voiding of the air where he’d stood, he was gone.

Dean woke up with a shake. The air in Bobby’s living room was thick and stagnant and too hot. Dean sat up and winced; he had a minor headache from sleep deprivation and stress. Probably dehydration as well, seeing as how the house was a furnace.

He shuffled to the radiator and flicked it off. There was enough residual heat to last until morning. Bobby had good insulation. Dean filled a glass with water and watched Sam’s slumbering form on the couch while he drank.

 _I’ll give him a day off tomorrow,_ Dean thought. _Then we’ve got jobs to catch up on._

Dean pinched his forehead and walked to the front porch to cool down. He closed the door gently behind him. Above the line of trees, the clouds blotted out the heavens, and the air all around was redolent with the scent of impending rain. Dean stooped against the porch column that Sam had supported himself on the previous night, looked up at the few stars that had slipped loose from the thunderheads, and breathed in.

_What do you feel?_

He didn’t ask those sorts of questions, and not only because he didn’t want to be asked them himself. He didn’t ask those questions because he was afraid of how people would answer them. It didn’t matter that he’d been alone with Castiel when he asked it; if anything, that had only seared what he’d said more indelibly into his mind.

Lightning arced down over the western sky, and the thunder followed a few seconds later. Dean raised his eyes to the flash on the horizon. The memory of being pulled from damnation was upon him again: the blaze of light, the smell of ozone, the arid wind that broke his fetters. His first experience of Castiel, before everything went black and he woke up in the pine box, whole again.

_What do I feel?_

That was the question he feared most. That was the question that never left him alone.

The rain was beginning. It rustled the dry leaves; it made them sing. He closed his eyes, and there was only the drumming of the raindrops to distract him from the questions that were always there.

_What do you feel?_

_You. This. Us._


	8. Free Bird

In the weeks since he’d last talked to Dean, Castiel had been returning to his little office in Heaven more and more. It wasn’t only to keep himself abreast of celestial politics and gossip, though that was necessary in the aftermath of the Anna debacle. It was also because his mind was quieter up here. He still thought about Dean, of course. He still felt spasms along his forearms or pricks in his neck when Dean was injured, or afraid, or angry. He still felt a lightening in his breast when Dean felt happiness, as uncommon as that was. Each of these sensations, however, was fainter and more muted than it was down there.

When he was in Heaven, he and Jimmy separated. For the sake of his human vessel’s health and sanity, Castiel retained Jimmy’s appearance, such that any angel who paid Castiel a visit would, without peering more deeply, see two Jimmy Novaks in close proximity. Jimmy was uncomfortable at first, but eventually became inured to it. He declared that he’d wondered from time to time what it would be like to have a twin brother. Castiel didn’t know what to say to that.

Sometimes Jimmy would walk around Castiel’s office, admiring the tomes and figurines and mementos that lined the walls. Other times, he would rest on the bed that Castiel had conjured for him, staring up at the ceiling sullenly or snoring on his side with his knees curled to his chest. Today, it was the former.

“This is amazing,” Jimmy said. He was leaning over an aquarium that ran the length of the wall opposite Castiel’s desk. A trilobite skated back and forth over the sand at the bottom. “Just amazing.”

_Uriel and I eliminated Lilith’s lieutenants before they could light the pyre. The texts were saved. The seal remains intact. However—_

“How long have these been extinct for?” Jimmy said. He looked over his shoulder at Castiel.

“Over 250 million years,” Castiel responded.

_However, a reprise is likely. The scrolls and codices are on public display in a heavily patronized museum, which leaves them vulnerable to theft and tampering, demonic or otherwise._

“250 million years,” Jimmy murmured, his voice thick with awe. “You sure have seen a lot, Castiel.”

“Jimmy, please. Let me concentrate on finishing this report.”

Jimmy nodded. He ambled to the corner of the room and picked up a dark grey stone that was about the size of a human fist.

_I recommend a unit of at least three angels be indefinitely stationed in the apartment tower across the street from the museum. Angels are necessary for swift detection and neutralization of demonically possessed staff and patrons. Local hunters or other mortals cannot be relied on for these purposes._

“Be careful with that,” Castiel said, as he lifted the parchment into the air. It dematerialized, bound for Zachariah’s desk.

“I am being careful.” Jimmy turned around, cradling the rock at eye level with both hands. “This a moon rock?”

“Close. It’s a shaving of the Chicxulub impactor.”

“The what?”

“A while back, a meteorite struck the Earth. The impact was in the extreme north of the Yucatán Peninsula.”

“Good Lord.” Jimmy fumbled with the rock. His hands shook. “The asteroid that killed the dinosaurs?”

“Yes. It killed most of the life on the planet. I think that turtles and crocodiles were the only large animals to survive. Jimmy—”

Castiel waved his hand. Jimmy and the meteorite fragment floated into the air.

“Whoa! What’s going on?”

“It looked like you were about to drop it. So, I turned off gravity.”

Jimmy’s arms flailed behind him, resembling an ineffective backstroke. “Everywhere?”

“No. I don’t know if even God could get rid of gravity everywhere. Just around you.”

Jimmy’s eyes followed the Chicxulub shaving as it orbited his body.

“I always wondered what it’d be like to go into space,” he said.

“For you? Painful,” Castiel said. He rose from his desk, walked to his armory, and inspected his angel blade.

“Not like that. I mean, like, inside of a space shuttle or the International Space Station.”

Castiel didn’t reply. He gazed into the sheen of his blade.

“What are you thinking about, Castiel?”

_The righteous man._

“Nothing, Jimmy.”

_Stubbornness like the tides. Irises the color of life._

“Is it Dean?”

Castiel sheathed his blade and turned around.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Are you ready to return, Jimmy? We have work to do.”

Jimmy grabbed the meteorite. He flicked his head to and fro, trying to maintain eye contact with Castiel as he rotated about his center of mass.

“Why don’t we just check in on him, if you’re so concerned? He’d probably be happy to see you.”

Castiel waved his hand. Jimmy tumbled to the floor.

“Ow!” He sat up and grimaced. “My butt.”

“Put the asteroid back, Jimmy. It’s time to go.”

He hobbled to the corner of the room, rubbing his buttocks as he went. As soon as the rock had been restored to its cradle, Castiel was behind him.

“We’re going to have to see him eventually,” Jimmy said.

Castiel nodded. “I know.”

He touched Jimmy’s cheek and they traveled back down to Earth as one.

* * *

“It looks like we might make it through the Anna fiasco relatively unscathed,” Uriel said, a week later. They were standing atop an office building in Mexico City, where they had just foiled another attempt on the texts.

Castiel peered down at the plaza. The wind whipped the belt of his trench coat into his arms. “Don’t count on it. You know how long Zachariah holds on to things.”

“I know it was mostly my fault,” Uriel said. He said this every time they talked. “I apologize for that.”

“As the leader, it was my responsibility.” Castiel looked at him. “Even if you did go behind my back.”

“I wanted to save you from having to put the screws to Dean Winchester.”

“You mean that you didn’t think I’d be able to.”

“Castiel, don’t you see, brother? This is what I was talking about. Your judgment is clouded by your feelings for this human.”

“How are you so sure, Uriel, that it isn’t your judgment that’s clouded? By your antipathy for them?”

“This is why I told you to stamp out your emotions months ago,” Uriel said, ignoring him. “Dean is your weakness.”

“No more, Uriel.” Castiel turned away from the ledge. The sun was rising over the mountains in the east. “We’ve discussed this too many times.”

“As you say. I’ll…leave you to your thoughts.”

He exhaled once Uriel was gone. For a while, he watched the dawn pour into the city streets, painting the tezontle pink.

Castiel didn’t feel much from Dean. He was probably still asleep: fishing on the lake with the chestnut trees. It was still dark and cold where he and Sam were, all those degrees north.

The light was touching the pavement now. A mission report had to be filed. Castiel turned his eyes to the heavens.

* * *

“That last mission was clean,” Jimmy said. He was lying on the bed, hands behind his head, knees bent. “We really showed those demons. I didn’t even get thrown into a wall this time.”

Castiel glanced up. “I thought you were going to rest.”

“I am resting.”

“Your mouth isn’t,” Castiel muttered.

Jimmy laughed. “Hey, Castiel. Maybe you _are_ becoming more like us. That was pretty funny.”

“It wasn’t intended to be.”

Jimmy soughed. He rolled onto his side, facing the aquarium.

_The unit appreciated our assistance. In my judgment, they need one more angel—preferably one with more battlefield experience. This is one of the seals most susceptible to attack._

Castiel hesitated. He almost never hesitated when writing these, but ever since Anna had slipped his grasp, he felt that he needed to be as diplomatic as possible.

_On this occasion, we were fortunate. Uriel and I were between assignments. We will not always be._

He reread the last few sentences, then rolled up the parchment and tossed it into the air.

“Are you done?”

“I am.”

Jimmy sat up and faced him. He crossed his legs.

“Castiel,” he began. “I don’t talk because I like bothering you. It’s because—well, humans, we need to talk. We’re social animals. If we don’t talk, we go crazy.”

“I am constantly attuned to your physical and mental health, Jimmy. As long as you’re my vessel, you’re all but indestructible.”

“Okay, but it doesn’t feel good. It’s lonely. Now that you’re ignoring Dean, sometimes we don’t talk to anyone for an entire week. Except for Uriel, and I’m not sure I like him.”

“Jimmy.” Castiel apparated to the side of the bed. He looked down at him. “You prayed to God. You wanted to serve God.”

Jimmy looked down at the sheets. “And I still do.”

“I—we—have a job to do, Jimmy. I never said it would be comfortable.”

“I know.”

Castiel nodded. He walked to his armory.

“Can we just—I know you already said no, but could we at least see my family? We don’t even have to _talk_ to them.”

“They’re doing well,” Castiel said. He polished his blade. “We’re watching over them.”

“I just want to see them.”

Castiel shook his head. “It wouldn’t be good for you to see them. And it wouldn’t be good for them to see you.”

“Can I at least send them a message?”

“My answer is no.” Castiel put down the oilcloth and closed the closet. “I’m sorry.”

Jimmy lay down on the bed again. He turned towards the wall and sniffed.

“Maybe one day,” Castiel said, after some time had passed. “When things aren’t so dire. Maybe we could find a way to send them something.”

Jimmy looked up at him. “Really?”

“Maybe. And if we prevail in this war, then I’ll have no more need of you. You’ll be returned to Earth and to yourself. I’ll remove all your memories of me; of any of this. You’ll have your life back.”

“Minus a few years of my daughter’s childhood,” Jimmy said, his eyes bloodshot and distant.

“You’re sacrificing for what is right. What is just and good.” Castiel placed his hand on the side of Jimmy’s face. “You have God’s gratitude. You have my gratitude.”

Jimmy stared up at him. He sucked in a long breath.

“There’s work to be done, Jimmy,” Castiel said. “Be strong now.”

* * *

The next week, Castiel put Jimmy to sleep whenever they returned to Heaven. The reports wrote faster, and Castiel didn’t have to listen to Jimmy’s thoughts about his family or his complaints of loneliness. The downside was that, without Jimmy’s chatter, thoughts of Dean insinuated themselves more and more into his psyche.

 _We are losing the war of attrition_ , Castiel wrote. _The fundamental fact is that we have to be right every time; Lucifer’s followers only have to be lucky once in a while._

He looked up. Jimmy was snoring loudly. He was profoundly tired.

It had been two months since his conversation with Dean by the lake. That was the last time they had seen each other. Thankfully, Heaven hadn’t required the Winchesters for anything in the interval.

Castiel hovered his pen over the parchment. After a while, he decided that there was nothing more to write. The scroll went to Zachariah’s office.

_His shoulder. Anchor of the universe._

Castiel shook his head and dragged two fingers through the air. On the other side of the office, Jimmy stirred.

“Castiel?” Jimmy stretched his arms above his head. He yawned. “Wow, I was dog-tired. And my back is sore.”

“I’ve finished writing my report,” Castiel said. “We can talk now if you like.”

Jimmy turned to look at him. “We can?”

“You said that humans need to talk. I knew that—academically—but I didn’t think about it with you. I don’t want you to feel like a prisoner if I can help it.”

“Even though I am,” Jimmy replied.

Castiel sat back. “It’s up to you. Talk, don’t talk. Either way, we have a little time before Uriel’s expecting me.”

“What is this?” Jimmy squinted at him. “Wait, _you_ want to talk, don’t you? Something’s on your mind.”

“You’re a powerful vessel, Jimmy.” Castiel smiled. “You perceived me the first time I spoke to you. You still perceive me.”

Jimmy sat up and threw the covers off. “Is something wrong in the war? Is Heaven losing?”

“It depends on whom you talk to. Everyone here has a different evaluation. The disorganization, ambition, and gainsaying in Heaven are the demons’ greatest asset.”

“That’s—” Jimmy scratched his head. “Candid.”

“I’m known for that.”

“Yeah, you are.” Jimmy walked to the snack table that Castiel had set up for him in the corner. He rubbed the small of his back. “Except—not when it comes to Dean.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Castiel,” Jimmy sighed. “We share a body. I see what you see. Hear what you hear. And a lot of the time, I feel what you feel.” He took a long drink of water before glancing at the desk. “Do you want to talk about him?”

“Well, you brought him up.”

“You think about him all the time, Castiel. You think about him more than you think about the other angels. More than you think about God.”

Castiel’s lip twitched. “That isn’t true.”

“We both know it is.”

“Ever since that mission in Montreal, I’ve been taking measures to maintain my focus. It won’t interfere with our work.”

“Okay.” Jimmy walked to Castiel’s desk with a cup of coffee. He sat down across from him. “That’s not what I meant, though.”

Castiel gave him a bemused look.

“I meant that you like him. As a person. A friend? Granted, a very different friend from Uriel.”

“I know you don’t like Uriel. No need to repeat yourself.”

Jimmy pressed on. “You feel calmer when you’re with Dean. Happier.”

“No. You’re interpreting things through your perspective. The human perspective.”

“I don’t know.” Jimmy shrugged. He tipped his mug. “Maybe.”

They each looked off into opposite corners of the room. After a moment, Castiel lifted his hand: a gesture of frustration. He was beginning to mirror Jimmy’s mannerisms.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just realized. It’s probably all because of you, Jimmy.”

Jimmy gaped at him. “Me?”

“It must be. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it until now.” Castiel stood up and started pacing behind his desk. “After a while, the vessel can influence an angel. We can close off our minds at any time, of course, but that requires attention, effort—”

“Hold on just a minute,” Jimmy said. “You think I’m the reason you like Dean?”

Castiel stopped pacing. “Do you like him, Jimmy?”

“Well, sure, I like that he fights evil things. I like that he protects innocent people. I mean, that’s what we do. Most of the time.”

“And you’re lonely. You want people to talk to. That’s why you like it when we’re with him, because he talks to me.” Castiel slumped into his chair again. “All this time, I thought Dean and I had some sort of ‘bond.’ I didn’t know what that meant. But it was really your affection for him all along.”

“No.” Jimmy shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. It isn’t.”

“But you said—”

“Castiel, you’re always the one in control. Always. I’m just the suit and tie and nondescript face you pilot around.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel said. “It all makes sense.”

“Sure, I like Dean fine. But you, Castiel—” Jimmy inclined his coffee cup towards him. “You like him _way_ more.”

Castiel frowned. He watched Jimmy quaff the rest of his coffee.

“What I don’t get is why you feel guilty about it.”

“I don’t.”

“And why you’re in denial about it.”

Castiel looked down at his desk. He gathered up the scattered parchments and stacked them neatly to the side.

“That’s what I don’t get,” Jimmy continued. “You can just go and see him any time you like. A flutter of your eyelids. Well, my eyelids.”

“Yes,” Castiel grunted.

Jimmy rose. He returned his coffee cup to the tray at the side of the room. “I wish I could see my wife and daughter that easily. As easily as you can see Dean.”

“That comparison makes me uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jimmy said. “I just mean—you’ve been missing Dean for two months. But you can see him whenever you like. I don’t know why you don’t.”

“Because my orders haven’t required it.”

Jimmy tilted his head: a gesture of doubt. That was another mannerism that Castiel was picking up.

“They didn’t require it before.”

“It’s time,” Castiel said abruptly. He retrieved his angel blade and shut the closet door. “Uriel awaits us.”

“Wait, Castiel,” Jimmy said. “Is it true? What Uriel says?”

“Uriel says many things.”

Jimmy met Castiel at the center of the room. “That it’s wrong for angels to have emotions. That you’re feeling them for Dean.”

Castiel lifted his hand to Jimmy’s cheek.

“That Dean’s your weakness.”

Castiel shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

Jimmy’s eyes followed the trilobite’s frantic path. He swallowed, then turned back to Castiel.

“Okay,” Jimmy said. “I’m ready.”

“I appreciate your counsel, Jimmy.”

Jimmy gave him a resigned look. “It seemed like you needed someone to talk to.”

* * *

Castiel touched down beside a dumpster in the middle of a dark alley. From exposed pipes and propped-open windows, hot steam and the smell of cooking oil billowed into the frigid night air. A stray cat glanced up at him from underneath a parked car, its eyes bright and vitreous, then looked at the pavement again, its interest in him sated.

Dean was in the bar at the end of this alley.

He walked to the street. His heart—Jimmy’s heart—beat faster with every step he took.

The neon sign jutting out over the sidewalk flickered as Castiel passed underneath. He stopped in front of one of the pub’s picture windows. Between the frosted lettering on the glass, he could see Dean sitting on a stool, facing away from the door. There was an empty seat on either side of him.

 _He is relaxed_ , Castiel thought. _And still in pain. Soul as damaged as ever._

Castiel followed a group of men inside. He stood by the door and watched Dean as he talked to a woman two seats away.

“Well, I may not have a Ph.D. in medieval literature,” Dean said, once Castiel finally approached the bar. “But I could tell you a thing or two about Dante.”

“God, you know—I thought a guy with a face like yours would be the type to coast on his looks. Shows what I know.”

Dean winked at her. “I won’t hold it against you.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said. He slid onto the stool between them.

“Cass,” Dean said, with a wry, half-drunk smile. “Impeccable timing, as always.”

Castiel glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “I don’t see what’s notable about the time.”

The woman to Castiel’s right laughed. “You’re a funny one.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said flatly.

“So, Cass.” Dean shifted in his seat to face him. “What’s the big emergency?”

“The what?”

“You, showing up after almost two months of no contact. Must be something pretty important.” Dean tipped the rest of his beer past his lips. “It freaking better be.”

“Awkward,” mumbled the woman.

“I just finished some work with Uriel. I had some extra time, so I decided to pay you a visit.”

“’Decided to pay me a visit.’” Dean motioned for another beer.

“I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Really, Cass? Because from where I’m standing, or sitting, you haven’t seemed all that concerned with how I’m doing.”

The bartender set a bottle down in front of him. Castiel watched Dean’s throat as he drank.

“You know why that is,” Castiel said.

Dean shook his head. He stared down at the bottle. “Yeah, sure.”

“If you had prayed to me, I would have come.”

Dean shot a glance at the woman. He cleared his throat.

“Forget it, Cass.”

Castiel nodded.

“So, how much time you got? Drink?”

“I have time,” Castiel said. “I don’t need to drink.”

“No one ‘needs’ to drink, Cass. Well, aside from me.”

For a while, Castiel watched Dean play with the bottle. Occasionally, Dean returned his gaze; the rest of the time, he peered into the liquid or stared at the condensation on the coaster or looked at the racks of spirits behind the bartender.

“How’ve you been, Cass?” Dean said. “Aside from work.”

“There’s only work,” Castiel replied.

“Sure seems that way, doesn’t it?” the woman said. She toyed with the orange wedge at the rim of her glass. “These days, it’s like everyone expects you to respond to your emails twenty-four seven.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Castiel said to her, after a beat.

“He has a dry sense of humor,” Dean explained.

Castiel turned back to Dean. “Work may be all I do, but I think about you often.”

The woman laughed. She paid for her cocktail and picked up her purse. “Looks like Dante here is more of a Casanova.”

Castiel looked up at her. “I find you very difficult to understand.”

“If I had a dollar for every time a man’s told me that. Even men like you two.” She buttoned her coat and walked out into the January night.

“Well,” Dean said. “We can talk now. Nice cockblock, by the way.”

“You should stop drinking. I can smell the alcohol in your veins. It’s overwhelming your body.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I want to be overwhelmed,” Dean said, almost pensively.

The bartender shouted out last call. Castiel looked at the grandfather clock: 1:35. As the patrons began trickling out, “Free Bird” played over the bar’s sound system.

“Play ‘Free Bird,’” Dean said, and chuckled. He glanced at Castiel. “Inside joke. Kind of.”

“I see.”

“I’m pretty beat, actually. Going to head back to the motel.” Dean tossed some bills onto the counter.

Castiel stood up. “I’ll go with you.”

“Suit yourself.”

Between the snowbanks outside, little groups of people had gathered, continuing conversations and bidding goodbyes. Dean looked around the street, then led the way up the icy sidewalk. The music filtered through the windows of the bar. Dean’s breath poured out in streams of white.

“Motel’s just a couple blocks away,” Dean said. “I wonder if Sam’s back from his walk yet.”

“He didn’t go on a walk.”

Dean frowned.

“He met up with that demon. Ruby.”

“Goddammit, Sam. I hope they’re just having sex.”

Castiel sighed. “I doubt that that’s the only sacrilege they’re engaging in.”

The brothers’ motel room was on the third floor. Castiel closed the door behind them and looked around in the darkness.

“No Sammy,” Dean commented, once he’d turned on the lamp beside his bed. “I should look for him.”

“You shouldn’t. You’re barely able to walk in a straight line.”

Dean shrugged off his jacket. “I don’t need you to baby me, Cass. I’ve hunted things while drunker than this.”

“Regardless, Sam isn’t in any danger.” Castiel squinted. “He’s with Ruby.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“I mean that he and Ruby are alone together. In another motel, across town.”

“Oh. He’s _with_ Ruby.” Dean shed his plaid shirt and walked to the bathroom. “Yeah, I definitely don’t want to look for him now.”

Castiel sat on Dean’s bed and listened to him urinate, flush the toilet, and brush his teeth. As Dean brushed, he alternately sang and hummed the song that had been playing when they left the bar. Castiel looked up at him when he walked back into the room. Dean paused beside the partition.

“Not for nothing, Cass, but you’re not exactly who I pictured waiting for me in bed tonight.”

Castiel furrowed his brow.

“Okay,” Dean sighed. He lay down on the other side of the mattress and reached for the remote control. “Let’s watch some late night.”

He flipped through the channels. Most of the stations were playing infomercials and black and white movies at this hour. There was laughter in the corridor outside, then a couple stumbling into the room next door. Two female voices, tender and wistful, drifted down the fire escape from the floor above. Castiel realized, as an old cowboy movie played from the dusty screen on the other side of the room, that Dean couldn’t hear any of it.

“Why are you really here, Cass?” Dean’s voice was barely a murmur. His body was turned towards the television, rendering his face a mystery.

“Because I keep thinking about you,” Castiel said.

Dean’s eyelashes fluttered. He looked over his shoulder. “What’d you say?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” Castiel stared into Dean’s eyes. “I’ve tried, these last two months. But you’re always there. Even in Heaven.”

Dean swallowed. He rolled onto his side, faced the middle of the bed.

“I don’t know why,” Castiel continued. “It could be our psychic bond, or—I don’t know. But the last two hours are the best I’ve felt in a long time.”

Dean muted the shootout across the room. He looked down at the bedspread, taking in measured breaths.

“Cass,” Dean finally said. “Why tell me this?”

Castiel cocked his head. He could hear Dean’s heart galloping in his chest. “Because you asked.”

Dean snorted. “I did ask. I guess.”

“Is something wrong?”

Dean lifted his hand, then dropped it. He shook his head and gave a muted laugh. “Funny thing is, I was thinking about you tonight, too. Right before you walked in. The talky chick you were sitting next to? She ordered a sidecar.”

“I’m not familiar with that vehicle.”

“It’s a cocktail, Cass. Cognac, bitter orange liqueur, lemon juice.” Dean glanced at Castiel’s collar. “It smelled like you.”

“Maybe I should try it sometime, then.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s tongue wet his lips. “You should do that.”

They both turned to the television again. The shootout was over, the bodies laid to rest. The heroes of the movie stood in front of the gathered townsfolk. The sun loomed, brilliant and huge, over the westward road.

Dean cleared his throat. “What you said—the last time we talked. About the things you feel.”

“Yes.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

“I do. Even more so than back then.”

“Alright,” Dean said. “Okay. But what about Heaven? I thought they didn’t like it when you slum down here with us humans. Aren’t your higher-ups going to get pissed about you—you know, watching cowboy movies with me?”

“I’ve decided that I don’t care what they think.” Castiel returned Dean’s triumphant, subversive grin. “As long as I’m carrying out my orders, what I do outside of that is up to me. That’s…what I’ll tell them.”

“Wow.” Dean pursed his lips and nodded. “So, you’re free as a bird now, huh? Even if you’re a bird that can’t change?”

“I’m—not sure. Similes and metaphors aren’t my forte.”

“Never would have guessed.”

“But I like the way I feel right now, Dean. Calm, happy.” Castiel pressed his hand into Dean’s shoulder. “It feels right.”

Dean nodded. He lay his hand over Castiel’s, slid his fingers between his, met his eyes. In the old silver television set on the far side of the room, the protagonists rode their horses down the winding trail to California, dwindling further and further before they vanished into the setting sun.


	9. Dreams

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean glanced up. He steadied his fishing rod against the gust of wind from across the lake.

“Afternoon, Cass. Nice day for fishing.”

“Every day is a nice day for fishing here. That’s how I created it.”

“Right. Thanks.” Dean spun the handle of his reel.

“You were already here when I arrived,” Castiel said, as he walked to the end of the pier. He turned his head to the view of the valley.

“I wasn’t in Hell, you mean.”

“Yes. That’s good. And…you’re having fewer nightmares?”

“They come and go.” Dean wound his line in and lay his rod on the cedar planks. “They’ve definitely become less frequent over the last two months.”

Castiel nodded. “The memory of your time in perdition is fading. Time heals, as they say.”

“It’s not just that.” Dean pulled at the belt of Castiel’s trench coat. “How about we take a walk, I’ll tell you about it.”

Their shoes clicked against the wood, then crunched into the dirt and gravel. The chestnuts bowed low over their heads.

“The memory of this place—of the talk we had here.” Dean breathed in the mountain air. “It was strong enough that if I focused on it, held onto it, I could walk out of the Pit and onto this dock. It was hard the first time. It got easier.” He looked down at the path, kicked a branch out of their way. “And even easier once I accepted that you weren’t coming anymore.”

“That last was largely your own doing.”

“Really?” Dean stopped walking. “You really want to do this again?”

“Heaven was outraged at what you did,” Castiel said. He looked back at Dean from the crest of the hill. “What I let happen. I had to stay away for a while, for both our sakes.”

“Yeah, well, good thing Sam and I know how to muddle through without any angelic assistance. We’ve been doing it our whole lives.”

“For humans, you are formidable,” Castiel conceded.

“Look, Cass, I don’t get this. I figured—when you met me at the bar, then what we talked about back at the motel—I don’t know, I thought you’d gotten over the whole Anna thing.”

“You did what you thought was right.” Castiel stared up at the sky. His body language was unreadable. “Just as you did with Samhain. I don’t hold that against you. And yet, there are consequences to every action. Cosmic consequences.”

Dean pulled a face and trudged up the hill. “Okay, Dad.”

Castiel turned to him abruptly. “Have you already been to the chalet?”

“The what?”

“It’s right up here, past the trees. I based it on a ski lodge you squatted in near Winter Park, Colorado a few years back.”

Dean followed Castiel, pondering. The trail turned down a gentle incline, winding through the sweet chestnuts and pines to a ridge overlooking the valley. His distant memories were harder to grab onto when he was dreaming, but he was getting better at it.

“Right,” Dean finally said. They were nearly at the edge of the trees now. “That chupacabra that upgraded from livestock to kids. Following trails of blood in the snow all by myself. Good times.”

The chalet was set back about twenty feet from the forest. A burgundy wooden roof sloped down from a beige stone chimney at the structure’s center, from which a delicate tendril of smoke curled up into the atmosphere. At one side was a shed and a modest vegetable garden; at the other, a driveway in which the Impala was parked. Castiel stopped and rubbed his hand along the corner of the house.

“Cass,” Dean said. “There isn’t even a road. Why bother creating a driveway and putting my car in it?”

“Because that’s how it looks in your memory.”

“Oh. Sure. Makes perfect sense.” Dean rolled his eyes.

“Shall we go inside?”

“Why not? Can’t wait to see what you’ve done with the place.”

Castiel turned and began to make his way towards the driveway. Dean peered at the chalet’s rear face. Wind chimes and bird feeders swayed from the eaves.

“Hang on,” Dean said. He pointed at the line of windows on the back wall. “There was a door on this side.”

Castiel pivoted and walked back to him. “Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent. I used it all the time because the front of the house faced the main access road to the slopes.” Dean shrugged. “Can never be too careful when you’re borrowing someone else’s property without asking.”

“Hmm.” Castiel waved his hand. A door, bright green with a golden handle, appeared at the midpoint of the wall. “Now we can enter through the backdoor.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah. We can, ah—that’s pretty good, Cass. Pretty accurate.”

Castiel squinted at him.

“The door, I mean. It’s how I remember it. Green and—accurate.”

“Then why are you thinking about—”

“I’m not,” Dean snapped. He strode towards the back porch. “You coming?”

It was smaller inside than Dean remembered it. There was the log staircase on the left that led up to the bedrooms, though most of those had been chopped off by the angle of the ceiling. The hearth in the middle of the living space, massive and surrounded by two couches and a half-dozen armchairs back in the real world, was here a small and cozy thing, next to which waited a solitary love seat. Even most of the hunting trophies—moose, grey wolves, black bears, caribou—were missing. At least the kitchen seemed to have retained its original size.

“I didn’t like the decapitated animals,” Castiel said. “So, I removed them.”

“Hey, as long as there’s a stocked minibar and bacon in the fridge, you can do whatever you want with the joint.” Dean rubbed his hands and walked to the fireplace. “Why’s the fire going in the summer, though?”

“Again, because that’s how you remember it. You were here in December.” Castiel motioned to the side of the lodge. “Look outside.”

“There’s—” Dean walked to one of the windows. “Snow on the ground. It’s snowing.”

“Yes.”

“But it was summer outside.”

“The realm of human dreams is changeable. It isn’t like reality. Well, your reality.”

Dean breathed in the smell of burning maple, crossed his arms, pitched forward on the balls of his feet. He stared out at the icicles in the eaves, the foot of snow on the Impala’s roof.

“Dean?”

“You know,” Dean said, glancing over his shoulder. “It’s weird. After all the crazy crap I’ve seen—ghosts, vampires, demons, angels—the thing that’s making me stop for a second and think, ‘this is freaky,’ is snow on the ground when it’s summertime.”

Castiel approached him. He stood close enough for their shoulders to touch. Dean didn’t move away.

“If you want,” Castiel said quietly. “I could make the world out there summer for you.”

Dean looked at Castiel’s reflection in the glass. He let out a quick breath, smiled, and roamed his eyes up and down Castiel’s body.

“Leave it,” Dean said. “I’m learning to embrace the weirdness.”

* * *

Dean slid into the booth and picked up his mug of coffee. He lifted his gaze to the pink clouds above the diner’s parking lot.

“You were in there a while,” Sam commented, from behind a newspaper.

“Yeah, the beef tacos from last night didn’t really agree with me.” Dean relaxed back into the vinyl upholstery. “Thanks for pointing that out, by the way.”

Sam grunted in response and picked up a different section of the paper.

“Find anything good?” Dean said, after another sip.

“Well, not in here. So far, at least.”

“What do you mean, not in there?”

Sam glanced up at him. “Alright, so, you were in the restroom for a long time—"

“Oh, come on, Sam! So I took a dump in a public bathroom, so what? How old are you?”

“Here we go, boys,” the server said, raising an eyebrow at Dean. “We’ve got bacon, eggs, and hash browns—”

“Right here.” Dean raised a sheepish finger.

“And your veggie omelette with whole-wheat toast.” She laid the platter down in front of Sam. “I’ll be right back with more coffee.”

“Dean?”

“What?” Dean said, through gritted teeth.

“If you’re done putting everyone in the restaurant off their breakfasts, I can finish what I was saying.”

Dean picked up his fork and knife. He stole a glance at Sam. “Okay, I guess.”

“Nothing in the paper,” Sam said. “But I think I may have a lead.”

“Good.” Dean chewed. “Well, what are you waiting for? We’re not getting any younger.”

“You remember a few months back, when I was feeling something weird following us from town to town?”

“Come again?”

“In our rooms. At night.”

“Oh. The ‘night hag.’”

“Why are you rolling your eyes?”

Dean washed down his food with a gulp of coffee. “I’m not.”

“Okay.” Sam sighed as he buttered a slice of toast. “Well, I think I felt it again last night. I was sitting here, staring out the window, waiting for you to finally get out of the bathroom—”

“Sam. Really? Again?”

“I’d been having this odd sensation gnawing at the back of my mind since I woke up, but I couldn’t place it. Once you were gone and I had time to ponder, I realized what it was.”

“Huh.” Dean swirled a rasher of bacon around in the yolks that had pooled in the middle of his plate.

“’Huh?’ That’s your reaction?”

“No offense, Sammy, but I thought you had an actual job for us.”

“Dean. This _is_ an actual job.”

“Look, Sam—”

“No, Dean.” Sam dropped his fork with a clatter. “I know I’m right about this. You’re just dismissing it because you don’t think you deserve help.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You run yourself ragged looking out for other people, but when it comes to you, you think you’re not worth the effort.”

“I don’t need other people’s concern. Not yours, not anyone’s.”

Sam lifted his hand in exasperation. Dean mimicked him.

“Dean, think about how you’d be acting if I were the night hag’s mark, instead of you. Wouldn’t you be as freaked out as I am?”

“Okay, look. You yourself said that hags provoke nightmares in their victims when they show up to drain them. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, I didn’t have any nightmares last night.”

Sam gave him a skeptical look. “Really?”

“Slept like a baby. Dreamt about fishing and drinking beer in a ski lodge.”

“Oh.” Sam leaned back and breathed. His shoulders relaxed. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Nice armchair psych there, though, Sigmund.”

Sam chuckled. He smiled in the morning sun. Dean waved to the waiter for more coffee.

* * *

It was always 7:54 on a Saturday morning when Dean walked through the door of the Café Sonámbulo. He always sat in the same corner booth and listened to the same sequence of classic rock tunes on the radio. When Dean didn’t know he was breakfasting in a dream, Sam was sometimes there; other times, Dad or Mom. Those dreams left him feeling warm and cradled, like he was wrapped up in the mohair blanket that he had taken up the stairs to bed with him every night back in Lawrence.

Over time, however, he was becoming more discerning. Making his nightly great escape from Hell was only possible when he was aware that he was dreaming. Even then, it demanded keen focus. Once ensnared, lucidity was difficult to unbind; not only that, it was becoming harder and harder to revert to oblivious slumber as his brain became more accustomed to awareness. So, as the two months passed, night by fitful night, Dean found himself increasingly sitting in the café by himself, waiting for Castiel. But he never came.

Dean winced at the hand on his shoulder. He looked up.

“Dean,” Castiel said. His eyes crinkled with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Dean caught his breath, flicked his chin to the other side of the table. “I was just thinking.”

“I startled you.” Castiel sat down and clasped his hands together over his menu. “Yes, you looked pensive when I was watching you from across the street.”

The server brought Dean his food and poured Castiel coffee. Castiel handed her his menu.

“You don’t _tell_ people you were watching them from afar, Cass,” Dean said.

Castiel tilted his head. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t.”

“Isn’t that lying?”

“Maybe. But some lies are good. Like ones that prevent me from feeling like an object in some voyeur fetish of yours.”

“Dean, you do know that I’m sitting on your bed right now, watching you sleep.”

“That’s—” Dean waved his butter knife in the air between them. “Not helping, Cass.”

Castiel frowned and sipped his coffee.

“You can pull yourself from damnation to here, as well?” Castiel said, after Dean had swallowed his next bite.

“Yup. I sort of…focus on the memory, like I told you last night. The sounds, the smells. The faces of the waitress and the retired couple in the next booth. The sarapes and dreamcatchers on the stalls across the road. And then I just—tumble out. If I’m lucky.”

“Good.”

Dean finished his burrito and washed down the last bite with the rest of his coffee. “I’m glad you came, Cass. Two nights in a row after being MIA for two months. You don’t do things by halves.”

“Don’t get used to it. I’m between missions right now.”

Dean snorted. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special, Cass.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s—” Dean averted his gaze. “It’s just a joke.”

“Dean.”

Castiel gently touched the back of his hand. Dean looked up at him. In the pale light of morning, Castiel’s eyes were the color of the desert sky.

“You _are_ special, Dean.”

“Okay,” Dean said. He laughed a shaky, attenuated laugh. “Alright, Cass. It was just a joke.”

Castiel glanced down at Dean’s hand. He stroked his thumb along the side of Dean’s index finger.

“Um.” Dean forced out a cough and pulled his hands back to his lap. “So, like I was saying. I’m glad you came, because I have to talk to you about something.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s Sam. He sensed you in our room last night.”

Castiel peered at him. “And?”

“And, I gave him the runaround, but you’re here again. Which means he’s going to sense you again, which means he’s going to want to know what the hell’s going on. He’s too smart—not to mention too stubborn—to keep taking my word on it.”

“Then tell him it’s me.”

“I—” Dean pouted his lips. “I don’t want to.”

“’You don’t want to.’ Why not?”

“Because, Cass—” Dean opened his mouth to continue, but nothing came out.

“Fine,” Castiel said, after a few seconds of silence. “I can tell him.”

“No!” Dean shouted.

Castiel cocked his head.

“What I mean is, no, I’ll find a way to tell him. I just wanted to see what you thought about it.”

“I wasn’t under the impression that my visits are a secret.”

“They…aren’t.”

“You just haven’t found—”

“—The right moment to tell Sam, yes. Stop reading my mind, Cass.”

“Apologies.” Castiel abruptly stood up. “You’re done eating. Let’s tell him now.”

“Wait, what?”

“This notion of a single right moment. It’s illusory. The time is always now. Especially for beings as short-lived as yourselves.”

Dean slapped his hands down on the booth. “We _aren’t_ telling Sam now.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s the middle of the night. Because I want to work up to it. And because I don’t want the first thing he sees when he wakes up to be you on my bed. It’s a little embarrassing.”

“I don’t—”

“I know you don’t understand. Just trust me on this.” Dean tossed a few bills on the table. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Castiel’s eyes followed him as he stood up. “Back to the mountains?”

“Huh. I don’t know, Cass. We’ve only been to the two places.” He slapped Castiel’s rear. “Why don’t you fly me someplace new?”

The family of four who always walked into the restaurant at 8:39 appeared in the windows. The father held open the heavy pine door for the rest of them.

“There is a place,” Castiel said, as he stared out through the portal. “You haven’t been there.”

Dean grinned. “Even better.”

Castiel put his arm around Dean’s shoulder. Dean felt an icy rush of air; he saw the tops of the clouds and the Earth’s magnetosphere and the revolutions of distant moons. He heard the chiming of millions of bells. Then, he saw black.

* * *

“Dean. Dean!”

He blinked. The night was cloudless: indigo at the horizon, then darker as his eyes traveled by degrees to the sickle-shaped moon.

“Don’t get up too quickly,” Castiel said. He was squatting at Dean’s side. His tie hung between his knees. “You’re disoriented from the trip.”

“Cass,” Dean mumbled. “What happened?”

“I transferred one of my memories into your mind,” Castiel responded. He pressed his fingertips to Dean’s pulse point. “Then, we flew into it.”

Dean glanced at Castiel’s arm. “You can do that?”

“Yes. But it’s…discomposing to the human brain. Temporarily.”

Dean sat up and groaned. “Why didn’t you warn me beforehand?”

“You’re the first human I’ve tried it with. Dean, you should lie down. You’re still weakened.”

“I’m fine, Cass.” Dean batted his hand away. “Quit with the Florence Nightingale routine.”

Castiel sat down carefully in the sand beside him. “Now that’s a reference I do know. I like her.”

“You would.” Dean rested his forehead on his knees. The salt breeze cooled the sweat at the nape of his neck.

“Her heaven is a hospital where every patient makes a full recovery. I’ve visited a few times.”

“Fascinating,” Dean said. He turned to Castiel. “Cass, where are we?”

“Hawaii.”

“Hawaii?” Dean scanned the rustling octopus bushes, the iridescent sand, the opaque and limitless ocean. “You’ve been to Hawaii?”

“I suspect I’ve been everywhere on Earth at some point,” Castiel mused. “I walked the length and breadth of Pangaea. Perhaps there are a few young volcanic islands I’ve not yet visited. Like these, but not these.”

“Pangaea,” Dean said incredulously. “Wait. Did you ever ride a dinosaur?”

“Why would I do that? I can fly in my true form.”

“Yeah, but I mean, still.”

“Still what?”

Dean shrugged. He licked his lips nervously. “Still, it’d be pretty cool to ride a dinosaur.”

Castiel blinked at him a few times, then turned to face the sea.

“So, Hawaii,” Dean said. “When’d you touch down to roost in the Aloha State?”

“I only started visiting this place after I met you. I—like to think here.” Castiel’s eyes followed a goose as it made its way across the beach. “It’s peaceful.”

“I’ll give it that.”

They were silent for a while. Castiel began to pick up and inspect the small, smooth stones that lay here and there in the sand.

“I…tried skipping rocks on the water here. Like you taught me.”

“Yeah? How’d that go?”

“Not well.”

“Waves will do that.” Dean craned his neck forward and looked up and down the coast. “Need a calm sea.”

Castiel emptied his hands and stood. He trudged down to the shore, his loafers sinking into the sand with every step.

“Cass?” Dean scrambled up and followed him. “What, you want to go for a swim?”

“If you like,” Castiel said absently. “The water’s quite warm at this latitude.”

Dean wrinkled his brow. He kicked the signpost next to Castiel.

“Cass, did you even read this?”

Castiel whipped around. “Read what?”

“This sign.” Dean tapped the aluminum square with his index finger. “Seabird sanctuary? Federal and state law?”

“I don’t harm the birds.”

“Huh. I guess it says no camping or dogs, but there’s nothing prohibiting loner angels.”

Castiel tipped his chin back and breathed deeply. The lunar crescent dangled a few feet above his messy hair, its broken circle suggesting a half-crushed halo. The warm breeze flapped the sides of his coat and carried his scent to Dean.

“The birds like me. Most of them, at least. There’s a group of obstreperous shearwaters who think I moved in on their territory.”

“Ah. Well, they probably clocked you as one of their kind.”

“Dean,” Castiel said. His voice sank even lower than usual. “You should know that your jests about me being a bird are…not as amusing as you believe.”

“What? They’re hilarious.”

“Whoever told you that was deeply mistaken.”

“Cass, you wouldn’t know humor if it flew over your head and pooped on you.” He reached over and patted Castiel's midsection. “Now, come on. I see a golden opportunity here for a long walk on the beach.”

* * *

Sam huffed, leaned forward, and clicked the radio off. He glared at Dean.

“Okay, you do _not_ turn off Stevie Nicks, Sammy.”

Sam blocked Dean’s hand with his own.

“Sam!”

“Sorry, Dean.” Sam’s eyes glittered menacingly in the punctuated beams of the streetlights. “Go figure, the irony was getting to be a little too much for me.”

Dean blew a raspberry. “Irony. What irony?”

“You’ve been avoiding talking to me all day. When I wake you up to tell you I felt the night hag again, you blow me off, run out the door, and take the car for a wash that lasts three hours.”

“She needed a wash!”

“At seven in the morning?”

Dean shrugged. He nudged his left blinker on.

“Then, when you get back, you spit out some—verbal diarrhea about a case involving a leprechaun and a chupacabra working together, take us on a wild goose chase around town, then drop me off at the college library for the entire afternoon to look at microforms while you scout some abandoned warehouse on the other end of the state?”

“In my defense, we’re in the middle of the state, so the other, uh, end isn’t that far off.”

“So, after all that, you can understand that I find it a little ironic to listen to a song called 'Dreams.' Seeing as you keep _lying_ to me about yours, because I know you’re still having the nightmares.”

“Keep your visions to yourself,” Dean muttered.

“No, Dean,” Sam said, his nostrils flaring. “We’re going back to the motel, and you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on with you. You’re freaking me out, man.”

“Okay,” Dean replied. He lifted his hands from the steering wheel in capitulation.

“Good.” Sam eased back into the seat. “Good.”

“Do we—I mean, do we have to go _straight_ back to—”

“Dean.”

“I’m just saying, we haven’t even had dinner.”

Sam scratched the back of his neck. “Let’s just order a pizza from Rosati’s when we get to the motel.”

“Great minds, Sammy. Great minds.”

Dean turned off the state highway and pulled into the space directly in front of their room.

“Deep dish?” Dean said, as he slammed his door. Sam rolled his eyes and jammed his key into the lock.

“What, so you’re not even talking to me now?”

Sam flipped on the lights. “You going to talk to me about what’s up with you?”

“I told you I will!” Dean bellowed. He threw off his coat. “ _After_ we call Rosati’s.”

They ordered a deep-dish pepperoni pizza, garlic bread, and a chopped salad. Sam hung up the call and turned to Dean.

“He said fifty minutes to an hour,” Sam said. “Now, if I jump in the shower, can I trust you to not take the car and skip town?”

“Come on, Sam, give it a rest. You’re like a freaking wife.”

“Unbelievable.” Sam snorted as he walked to the bathroom.

Once Sam shut the door, Dean exhaled. He turned on the television and surfed through the channels.

 _Time to come clean_ , he thought.

“This is crazy,” Dean said, under his breath. _Why am I acting loopy?_

He pinched his eyes shut, hit his skull back against the headboard. He unscrewed his whiskey bottle and brought it to his lips.

_It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong. And Sam doesn’t have any room to talk when it comes to weird supernatural bonds. He’s banging a demon chick._

Dean sighed and looked at the television. He’d landed on a travel program that explored the island of Maui. Dean kicked off his shoes, crossed his legs at the shins, and watched the show until Sam walked out.

“What do you know,” Dean said. “Still here.”

Sam sat down on the edge of his bed. He unfastened his towel and pulled on his boxer briefs.

“You’re not funny, Dean.”

“You know, I’ve heard that from a lot of unfunny people lately.”

Sam looked over his shoulder as he finished getting dressed. “You ever think it’s you?”

“Nope.”

“Alright.” Sam rose and rounded the bed to the side facing Dean. “As fun as this is, it’s time we talked.”

“Look, I don’t know what you think you know—”

“That’s the thing, Dean. I don’t know anything. And it’s pretty clear from the way you’ve been acting that _you_ do, so—” Sam prompted him with his hands.

Dean tossed the remote control onto the floral comforter. “First of all, I did not lie to you about having nightmares these past few nights. I want you to know that right off the bat.”

“Okay,” Sam said. He brushed the wet strands of hair away from his face. “I believe…that you believe that. But the evidence—”

“I haven’t had nightmares in weeks, Sam. Believe me or not, that’s the truth.”

“You might not be remembering them.”

Dean slammed his bottle into the nightstand. “I always remember them.”

“Alright,” Sam said, after a moment. “Let’s say you’re right. Your head hits the pillow and you’re off making it rain at a strip club all night.”

“Wait.” Dean looked at him cagily. “How do you know about that?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Huh.”

“If all you’re having now are good dreams, then what am I feeling in our room? I mean, what if it isn’t even the same thing as before? I thought it was, but—”

“It is.” Dean threw him a sidelong glance and drank more whiskey. “The same thing.”

“So you do know what it is.” Sam edged forward. “Have you known what it is all along?”

“Yes.”

“Since months and months back, from the first time I came to you about this?”

Dean nodded reluctantly. “Yes.”

“You’re kidding.” Sam jabbed his index finger into the air between their beds. “You better have a damn good reason for keeping me in the dark here.”

Dean waved the bottle back at him. “Or what?”

“Or you’re a dickhead.”

“Fair. Okay, look. I don’t know if this qualifies as a good reason, but I couldn’t find the right moment to tell you.”

“It doesn’t.”

“—And I was a little, uh, embarrassed.”

Sam twitched. “’Embarrassed?’”

“Yeah.” Dean stared down into the amber of his whiskey. “Look, Sam—it’s Cass.”

“What’s Cass? Did you hear from him?”

“I mean the presence you’ve been feeling is him. It’s Cass.”

“Castiel.” Sam stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve been sensing an angel in our motel rooms?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“I’ve been sensing an angel in our motel rooms and wondering aloud what it is, and all along you knew? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Like I said, I couldn’t find the right time—”

“You had more than three months!”

“Okay, calm down.” Dean swung his feet to the carpet.

“Why was he here in the first place?” Sam gaped at him. “Oh my god. It’s about what you told me, isn’t it?”

“Sam, you’re not making any sense.”

“About—about you needing to stop me from using my powers, or they would. Is that why Cass is coming here? To check up on me? Make sure I’m not doing anything unholy?”

“No, look—”

“You’ve been meeting with them in secret, Dean?” Sam’s eyes were starting to glisten. “Behind my back? For months?”

“Okay, will you just shut up and take a breath?” Dean thrust the bottle across the divide. “You’re going to hyperventilate pretty soon.”

“I don’t want any of that. Just tell me the truth about what’s been going on.”

Dean took a deep breath. “Look, Sam. You’ve got it all wrong. Cass hasn’t been here for you. He’s been here for me.”

“For—” Sam blinked rapidly. “For you?”

“Yeah.” Dean twisted the cap onto the whiskey bottle. His fingers were torpid and deliberate: the alcohol was working its calm on him.

“Care to elaborate?”

“I’d been having nightmares every night, Sammy. Every night since I walked out of that grave. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus—well, you know me, I find a way to push through. But Cass decided to…help me one night.”

Sam watched him warily. “What, like heal you?”

“Sort of. He fenced off these ‘good’ memories in my mind. Ones that were safe from Hell. And then he’d pull me through a gate he’d created between where I was in my head and where he wanted me to be. Presto chango, nightmare over.”

“So, the nights I sensed something—those were the times he was here?”

“Yup. He was working on my night terrors.”

“And…did he cure you?”

“I don’t know for sure. But now I’m sort of able to do what he did. Like, if I realize I’m in the Pit, I just concentrate really hard on the other places in my mind. And then—most of the time—I can just kind of…walk out.”

Sam let out a sigh of relief. “Dean, that’s fantastic!”

“Yeah.” Dean looked down at his hands. They were flushed and sweaty.

“I don’t understand, though. Why didn’t you want to tell me?”

“I don’t know, man,” Dean said, without looking up. “It just never seemed like the right time.”

“How about the first time it happened? I mean, this is good news for once.”

Dean raised his hands and dropped them, not knowing what to say. A few seconds later, there was a knock at the door.

_Saved by the bell._

“That must be the pizza guy,” Sam said. He walked to the door, signed the receipt, and placed the food on the table.

“About time he delivered.” Dean sauntered across the room. He grinned at Sam as he reached for the pizza box.

“Your porn jokes are the worst of all of them.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You done with busting my balls yet?”

The lights flickered. They both looked up, then at each other.

“Maybe it’s just the power grid,” Sam said.

“When has it ever been ‘just the power grid,’ Sam?”

“Well, never. Which is why we might be due a break.”

“Not us,” Dean said. He tore open the bag of garlic bread.

Sam drizzled vinaigrette into the plastic salad container. “You sure about that?”

Dean looked up at him. He was poking at the salad with a plastic fork; his brow was furrowed. His eyes darted around the table’s surface as he waited for Dean’s response.

“Cass rescued you from Hell,” Sam said, after a while of Dean saying nothing. “Cass cured your nightmares.”

“I don’t know if they’re cured.”

“Regardless.” Sam turned to him. “Dean, remember what I said to you yesterday? About you thinking you’re not worth anyone’s concern?”

“No, I don’t _need_ it. Big difference.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam said. His tone was transparently dubious. “Thing is, you’ve got an angel watching over you who thinks you’re worth worrying about. That’s pretty freaking awesome, dude. And definitely what I’d call a break.”

Sam returned his attention to the salad. His entire bearing seemed tranquil, as if a very old weight on his shoulders had been lightened. The totality of the moment was bewildering. Dean had the sudden and overpowering feeling that something elemental in his life was about to change.


	10. Let Me Take You Home Tonight

It was uncommon enough for Castiel to receive any visitors at his office. Three in one day had to be a record.

The first, and the only scheduled one, was Zachariah. His appearance was brief and straight to the point: he praised Castiel for going “above and beyond” in Mexico City, inquired into the status of the Winchesters, and ordered Castiel to show up for a mission in Paris in twenty-four hours.

“Paris,” Castiel said, and frowned. “What’s the mission?”

“Hester will brief you when you get there.” Zachariah snapped his fingers, and the cherrywood chair across from Castiel was empty.

Castiel sighed. He gave a gesture of lassitude to the other side of the room.

“You can wake up now, Jimmy.”

“Castiel?” Jimmy yawned. “What time is it?”

“That’s all relative.”

“Yeah, I guess it would be to you. Sorry, silly question.”

“There’s no time as you understand it in Heaven. Time expresses itself here in its true, mutable form. Every moment that has ever happened, and ever will happen, exists alongside the present one as you perceive it now, lying there.” Castiel waved to the file cabinet in the corner and floated the Paris folder into his lap.

“Look, Castiel.” Jimmy sat up, threw the duvet aside. “That’s kind of just a thing we say when we wake up after dozing off.”

“I see. ‘Small talk.’”

“Were those air quotes?”

“Dean made that gesture in a recent conversation. I…may not be using it correctly.”

Jimmy raised his eyebrows. Castiel opened the Paris folder and began poring over it.

“Well, I’m going to make myself a coffee while you’re reading that,” Jimmy said. “Let me know if you feel like talking. You know, about anything.”

Castiel grunted. He folded out a map of the Paris Métro and studied it from the center outward. For a few minutes, the only sounds in the office were the clinking of Jimmy’s teaspoon against his coffee cup and his periodic sips.

Soon, Castiel’s concentration wavered. The smell of coffee had begun to take on a new, crystallized meaning: something greater than—and largely unrelated to—the hundreds of discrete molecules that constituted it. Something held by the hands across from him in a restaurant in Santa Fe on an endlessly recurring Saturday morning.

“Hello, brother.”

Castiel started. He looked up at Uriel.

“Brother. Why didn’t you knock?”

“I’m sorry for startling you. I figured you wouldn’t mind me dropping in.” Uriel tapped his fingertips together. “We don’t hide anything from each other, after all.”

“Of course we don’t. It’s only—you don’t object to Jimmy listening in?”

Uriel glanced at the bed. “You let your vessel walk free here?”

“I have no need of him in Heaven. He rests while I work.”

“How unorthodox.”

“If you say so.” Castiel scribbled a note under the map’s legend. “What news, Uriel?”

“Anna.”

“Anna? What of her?”

“I thought that would grab your attention. I heard through the grapevine that she’s been asking around for favors in Heaven.”

“That’s bold. From whom?”

“Obviously, no one wants to admit to contact with her. But I have my suspicions.”

“Uriel,” Castiel said, dropping his pen. “Human empires rise and fall in the time it takes you to get to the point.”

He smiled. He seemed to take the remark as a compliment. “I suspect it’s about finding a vessel. She’s an apostate, and therefore welcome nowhere in Heaven. In a human body, walking the Earth, she’ll be better able to hide.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Why would she have to ask approval of any of us? She can search for a vessel all on her own.”

“Yes, why?” Uriel’s smile broadened. “That’s the question.”

From the other side of the room, Jimmy threw Castiel a bemused look. Castiel pressed his lips together and retrieved his pen.

“This isn’t news, Uriel. It’s gossip. There are better uses of our time.”

“You’re in a delightful mood,” Uriel commented. “Not looking forward to the Paris job, I take it?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “I never mentioned that.”

“You’re right.” Uriel looked away for a moment. “You didn’t.”

“More gossip, then, Uriel? I’m surprised I’m interesting enough for the heavenly rumor mill.”

The chair creaked as Uriel shifted. “You misinterpret me, Castiel. It’s not idle talk to hear that your direct superior is leaving his command for another mission.”

“Temporarily,” Castiel said. He drew a triangle around three of Paris’s churches.

“Yes. Temporarily. It’s relevant to my assignment to know about it.”

“I’ll decide that,” Castiel responded. “If there’s nothing else, I have hundreds of streets and stations to memorize.”

“Of course.”

Uriel smiled again before flying away.

“Boy,” Jimmy said, after a while. “You two have the strangest friendship I’ve ever seen.”

Castiel drew another, larger triangle. “I don’t expect you to understand, Jimmy.”

“You’re more like frenemies.”

“What?” Castiel peered at him. “I don’t know this word.”

“Oh, my daughter Claire taught me it. She’s in middle school—apparently everyone there is frenemies.”

“I see. What does it mean?”

“It’s like, someone you’re close to who’s also your rival.”

Castiel considered this. He nodded to Jimmy and returned his attention to the map.

“Paris,” Jimmy said. He looked up at the light pouring from the office’s wall of windows. “I’ve always wanted to see Paris. I mean, I thought I’d see it with Amelia, not with, you know, the angel who’s possessing me.”

“I’m focusing, Jimmy.”

“Right. Okay.”

Jimmy fell quiet, but the peace was short-lived and broken by his piercing scream.

“Sweet child of Dad,” Balthazar groaned. He rolled over on the bed and stared down at Jimmy. “’AAAHH!’ yourself, boy.”

“Balthazar,” Castiel said, tossing his pen to the desk again. “Does anyone knock before crashing down into my office anymore?”

“I’m not just anyone, am I, darling?”

“You’re right. I’m your commander; you’re my subordinate—"

“For a hot minute,” Balthazar scoffed. “I hope you’re not getting high and mighty, Cass. No one finds that attractive.”

“Just—” Castiel shook his head. “Get out of Jimmy’s bed. You’re in his personal space.”

Balthazar sat up and gripped the sheets. “Jimmy’s bed? Stick-up-the-arse Castiel lets his pretty boy vessel roam free? That’s a shock to the system.”

“Castiel,” Jimmy said, from the triangle formed by Balthazar’s torso and arm. “Who is this?”

“Balthazar’s an—old friend of mine.”

“Not a frenemy,” Jimmy said.

Balthazar quirked an eyebrow. “Sorry, what?”

“No,” Castiel replied. “He’s a friend. And he’s _supposed_ to be in South America right now.”

“Oh, please.” Balthazar sauntered to the cherrywood chair and collapsed into it. “Peru is quieter than the laugh track of your life right now, Cass. Lilith hasn’t shown the slightest bit of interest in the seal there.”

“Some good news.”

“Nice, isn’t it?” Balthazar flashed him his radiant, irreverent grin. “Maybe if you reassign me here, I’ll bring some of my good luck with me.”

“I doubt that’s how it works.” Castiel looked down at the map again. “Why are you here, brother?”

Balthazar soughed. “It’s nothing good, I’m afraid.”

“And I was almost getting used to good news,” Castiel muttered.

“Castiel! Was that a joke?” Balthazar glanced over his shoulder at Jimmy. “Average height, dark, and handsome over there’s been teaching you a thing or two, has he?”

“What? Me? I haven’t done any—”

“Just—” Castiel raised his hand for silence. “Tell me what you came to say, Balthazar. I have work to do, and the number of interruptions I’ve had today is astounding.”

“Ah. Well, a little bird slandered you quite salaciously to me the other day. It was something like fourthhand information, so I thought I’d better follow up on it before coming to you. I pulled the threads, and as it turns out, you’re very much the hot topic in the heavenly coffee clutches.”

“Angels are always talking.” Castiel began to list Parisian locations on a legal pad. “Most of angelkind spend a day chattering for each hour they spend fighting.”

“That may be, Cassie. But from what I hear, when it comes to you, they have good reason to chatter.”

Castiel’s pen stopped mid-stroke. “What have you heard?”

“I’ll just come right out and say it. What’s going on between you and Dean Winchester?”

“Going on? He’s a human in my charge.”

“Ah. Just one of many, then?”

“Not exactly. We all know how special Dean is.”

“Well, yes.” Balthazar rested his feet on the corner of Castiel’s desk and leaned back. “The righteous man who will save us all. All very impressive. I’m just not sure if he’s _quite_ as special to the rest of us as he is to _you_.”

Castiel scowled at Balthazar’s boots. “What are you implying, brother?”

“Dear, you must know that our entire flight regularly pings your location. Now, at first, most dismissed the pattern they were seeing as a requirement of your role as the Winchesters’ guide, or some other coincidence. I know I did. But the more angels I overheard, the more I asked around—at a certain point, rumors become conventional wisdom. They take on an insidious life of their own.”

“Speak plain, Balthazar.”

“I shall. You’ve visited Dean late at night four times in the last week. The others don’t know of any official reason you’d be there. Especially alone. It doesn’t take a creative thinker like me to tell you what this looks like.”

Castiel tilted his head. Jimmy was looking down at the bed, his neck flushed. He appeared to be stifling a laugh.

“Then again, perhaps it does,” Balthazar continued. “Well, you and he can’t produce a Nephilim. That’s a silver lining, at least.”

“That’s—” Castiel stood up. “Don’t be obscene. You dishonor me, Balthazar.”

“I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”

“You heard wrong. Very, profoundly wrong.”

They stared at each other for several seconds. Balthazar had a keen, yet empathetic look in his eye. Eventually, Jimmy’s hesitant voice broke the silence.

“What’s—what’s a Nephilim?”

“It’s a child produced by the union of an angel and a human,” Balthazar said, without turning around.

“A child—oh.” Jimmy gaped at Castiel. “Um, wow.”

Castiel walked to the side of his desk and pushed Balthazar’s feet to the ground. “I don’t owe you an explanation, brother. But my visits to Dean are not…carnal. They’re pastoral. And they don’t encroach on my other duties.”

“Pastoral,” Balthazar echoed. He offered Castiel an apologetic simper. “I believe you, darling. You’ve always been a good shepherd.”

“I’ll assume you mean that as a compliment.”

“Naturally. Still, there’s something different about you. I can see it in your aura; I can see it in your vessel’s beautiful blue eyes. And it’s something that wasn’t there before you left for that glorious invasion of the underworld and rescued that poor sap from eternal hellfire.”

“And you’re still the same, Balthazar. As impudent and presumptuous as ever.”

“Don’t leave out witty, and charming, and devastatingly comely.” He sat forward and patted Castiel’s hand. “And loyal. Why do you think I’m here?”

“To bother me?”

“A little.”

Castiel couldn’t suppress his smile. “Return to your post. You’ll hear from me soon.”

“Orders, orders.” Balthazar sighed. “Fine, I’ll be on my way. But I’m worried, Castiel. I can’t shake the feeling that, underneath the whisper campaign, there’s a plot brewing against you. Go on, roll your eyes—but look after yourself, okay?”

“I will. If it will make you feel better.”

Balthazar’s wings had scarcely flapped before Jimmy spoke up. “Okay, what the heck was that?”

“That was…Balthazar.”

“He’s not like the other angels I’ve met.”

“A lot of our siblings find him amusing.” Castiel walked behind his desk and pressed his two palms down onto either side of the map of the Paris Métro. He was still smiling. “I think he likes the sound of his own voice too much.”

Jimmy stretched, walked to the window, gazed down at the garden. He ran his hands through his hair and scratched his cheek.

“Was he flirting with me?” Jimmy blurted out.

Castiel shrugged. “Probably. He’s Balthazar.”

“Huh. I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. He hits on everyone.”

“Even though—” Jimmy crossed his arms and turned to Castiel. “I mean, I’ve never judged people, you know? I’ve always loved everyone equally, like Jesus taught. But his flirtation, and you and Dean—”

Castiel straightened up. “There is no ‘me and Dean.’ Definitely not in that way.”

“I don’t mean—” Jimmy looked away, down at the Persian carpet in the middle of the room. “I’m just curious. Doesn’t the Bible say it’s wrong for two men to be together? I always thought that was stupid. I mean, we’re all humans who love the same. But if God says it….”

“Oh, Jimmy.”

“Castiel? What is it?”

“Your books were written by men. Based on my father’s words and deeds, but written by men all the same. And men are driven by fear and lust and greed and all the rest of your human weaknesses.”

“And the Bible?”

“It’s a story. And no story is the entire truth.” Castiel walked to Jimmy, who stood with his legs apart and arms all relaxed anticipation, like Michelangelo’s David. “We’re indifferent to sexuality. It’s you humans who use it to control one another.”

Jimmy seemed to digest this. The side of his face was gold in the afternoon light.

“A lot of people on Earth need to hear that, Castiel.”

“Then you tell them, Jimmy. After we avert the apocalypse.” He squeezed Jimmy’s shoulder. “I’m done memorizing the Paris folder. It’s time for us to go.”

* * *

Castiel landed soundlessly on the passenger side of the Impala. Torrid air streamed out of the car’s vents and ruffled his hair. At the other end of the seat, Dean gazed out at the double yellow lines, his eyelids heavy with alcohol and fatigue.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said.

“God—” Dean’s hands shuddered. He glared at him. “Cass, do you have to do that?”

“I did announce my presence.”

“Yeah.”

“And it looked like you could use some waking up.”

“Yeah. I mean, no.” Dean gripped tight to the steering wheel. “I’m totally awake.”

“You’re sleep-deprived, stressed, and just shy of the legal limit for driving under the influence.” Castiel reached his hand to Dean’s thigh. “May I?”

Dean looked down. “May you what?”

“Heal you.”

Dean shrugged. He returned his eyes to the road. Golden light pulsed from Castiel’s hand and coursed through Dean’s body.

“Great,” Dean said. “Rested, refreshed, and sober. Now I have to work that much harder to get drunk tonight and I won’t be able to fall asleep until tomorrow.”

Castiel looked out his window. The cornfields were dark and dormant. “Do you ever stop complaining?”

“Cass, have you _seen_ the world out there?”

“I’ve seen more of it than you have,” Castiel replied. “And I complain far less.”

“Yeah? Well, once I’m not driving, I’ll find a cookie to give you.”

Castiel snorted. For a while, the only sounds were the whistling of the car’s heating and the drone of the tires on the freeway.

“Does it help you to lash out at me?”

“Yes,” Dean snapped. He took a breath. “No.”

“That isn’t very clarifying.”

“It’s just—Sam and I had a fight a few days ago. We both said things…I told him I was over it.”

“But you’re not.”

“No,” Dean admitted. “Thing is, I can’t completely blame him for what he said, since he was under a siren's spell. And somehow, that makes it harder to get over. That make sense?”

“Not really.”

“Right. Good talk.” Dean looked across the seat; for a split-second, a streetlight illuminated the wry curl of his lip. “Where’ve you been, anyway?”

“I was in France for several days. There was a coordinated assault on the seals in Paris and two other cities. The angels stationed there needed reinforcements. Someone with experience.”

“Oh, so you were just saving the world. No big deal.”

“Oddly enough, though, there was hardly any opposition to speak of. The demons were pathetically weak and there were less of them than us.” Castiel furrowed his brow. “My presence was unnecessary.”

“Huh.” Dean turned down the heat and rubbed his palm on his jeans. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“No,” Castiel said. “There was a miscalculation.”

“Really? I thought you guys were perfect.”

Castiel smiled wanly. He was beginning to find Dean’s sarcasm comfortable, familiar. “Unfortunately, we’re far from it. But it’s still an uncharacteristic error. I’ll have to ask my superiors when I return to the garrison.”

“You haven’t been back yet?”

“No. Hester’s filing the report as the mission lead, so my duties are concluded for now.” Castiel watched the crosscutting shadows drift across Dean’s profile. “I thought I’d see how you’re doing first.”

Dean glanced at him. “We’re fine, Cass. Had a close call on our last mission, but Bobby came through, thankfully.”

Castiel nodded. He looked at the back seat of the car, then out the windshield at the open road.

“Where are you heading?”

“Driving into Sioux Falls to pick up some supplies. Bobby was running low on a few things. Sam and I help him with the shopping when we’re in town.”

“I see.”

“Plus, I needed some space. From Sam, mostly. But Bobby, too. He gets a little tetchy when Sam and I have…tension.”

The streetlamps were growing closer. In the near distance, the first traffic light of the city turned red. Dean eased off the accelerator and turned to Castiel.

“You know, I was thinking. I told you about that close call Sam and I had with that siren. Well, that wasn’t the first time. And it wasn’t the closest call, either.”

“You live a dangerous life, Dean.”

“Yes, we do.” Dean drove through the intersection, then turned left at the next one. His words were slow, bordering on halting. “And I know you’re not the coddling type, and I’m not asking you to babysit us. I’m—I’m offering you a deal: you help us with hunting; Sam and I help you with stopping Lucifer.”

“What?”

“Cass, you can gank anything without breaking a sweat. And you can swoop down to wherever Sam and I are working a case. If you save us time on our day job, we’ll have more time to work with you. You know, protecting seals.” 

Castiel clasped his hands together in his lap. He raised his eyes to the vivid, towering polychrome of the strip mall’s entry sign.

“Cass?”

“That’s not possible, Dean.” Castiel looked at him sidelong as Dean pulled into a parking space.

“Okay.” Dean turned off the car. “Why not?”

“Because I have orders.”

Dean nodded. “Right. And you watching me sleep—that’s part of your orders, too?”

“That isn’t what—”

“What about right now?” Dean peered at him. “Is riding shotgun with me part of your orders?”

“Dean, I thought I was clear with you. My time outside of my duties is my own. But I can’t make a commitment to you to intervene in worldly affairs whenever you need me. I can’t muddle my responsibilities as an angel of the Lord with…your needs. There has to be a clear separation.”

“Yeah.” Dean took in a sharp breath. “Yeah, okay. I mean, people are dying to monsters every day. You could save them by getting off your ass, but what really matters here is bureaucracy.”

Castiel looked away and said nothing.

“Yeah,” Dean continued. He threw open his door. “You think about that, Cass. Really think about that.”

Castiel watched Dean walk through the parking lot. When Dean disappeared into the bright lights of the supermarket, Castiel looked down at his hands and prepared to receive revelation.

For much longer than usual, Heaven was silent. Castiel frowned, his eyes closed, and waited. After a few minutes, Zachariah’s wavelength reached out to him.

_Castiel. I’ve received Hester’s report._

“The mission was an unalloyed triumph,” Castiel replied.

_So I gathered._

“Do you have further orders for me?”

_Soon. We’ve sensed a disruption in the natural order in a small town near where you are. We may need you to investigate._

“What sort of disruption?”

_The lifestream is dammed in some way. More on this later; I’m still learning about it myself._

“I stand ready.”

_Another thing. Uriel is on another assignment and the rest of the garrison is committed elsewhere, so you’ll be alone on this._

“Understood.” Castiel waited for several seconds before opening his eyes. Zachariah was still there, but had stopped speaking. “Is there anything else?”

_Get the Winchesters to help you. It would be good to put them through their paces again._

“The Winchesters,” Castiel echoed. “Zachariah—”

_They must be tested. We have to know what we’re working with._

“This is…awkward timing. I’ve just told Dean that I won’t help him with his own tasks. He won’t be inclined to—”

 _We are angels, Castiel._ Zachariah’s wavelength vibrated with contempt. _Make him help you. I don’t care how you do it. These are your orders._

Castiel exhaled. “I understand.”

_Good._

Castiel blinked. Zachariah was gone, but his words still hung heavy in the air inside the Impala. When Dean opened the door on the driver side, Castiel twitched.

“You’re still here,” Dean said. He dropped two plastic grocery bags onto the backseat. “Who were you talking to? I saw your lips moving.”

“I was…receiving revelation.” Castiel’s eyes darted back and forth. “Dean, I’ve been thinking.”

“Ooh.” Dean slammed his door shut and started the car. “That sounds ominous.”

“What you said about me helping you and Sam. Maybe I was too hasty in dismissing the idea.”

“You didn’t seem hasty, Cass.” Dean reversed out of the parking space. “You seemed like you didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.”

“I don’t; however—”

“Look, Cass.” Dean turned onto the highway. He reached over and clapped a hand to Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s fine. I get it. You’ve got your own shit going on, we’ve got ours. So, let’s forget I ever brought it up. Okay?”

Castiel studied Dean’s expression for a while before responding. “As you wish.”

“Great.” He twisted the radio on. “Let’s just head home to Bobby’s. You can be a nice, shiny distraction from the weird vibe between Sam and me.”

“I…don’t know if I can stay for very long.”

“Sure you can.” Dean turned up the volume. “Time for a little Boston, Cass. One of the greatest debut albums of all time.”

Castiel opened his mouth to reply, but Dean started to sing before he managed any words.

“’Now I'm not like this, I'm really kind of shy.” Dean winked at him. “But I get this feeling whenever you walk by.”

Dean’s voice strained to reach the high notes. Castiel cocked his head. Objectively, he knew that Dean’s singing was unskilled, paper-thin, teetering on the edge of breaking like the voice box of a teenager on his first joyride through the cornfields.

“I don't want to down you, I want to make you high,” Dean sang. He gunned the engine to make a yellow light, glanced at Castiel. “That means you, angel boy.”

Castiel laughed. Dean’s tuneless attempt at music should have offended him intrinsically; the harmonic wavelengths that made up his essence, the nature of his being deeper than his grace, should have revolted against the performance on the other side of the Impala. Instead, he felt his breath pause with expectation. Instead, he thought Dean’s voice, right at that moment, was beautiful.


	11. Comfortably Numb

_We actually have freezing rain in the forecast for tonight, then temperatures right around 32 Fahrenheit for the rest of the week. It's still too early to say winter's over, but we can definitely enjoy the balmy weather while it lasts, folks._

Dean tightened the fill cap. His breath streamed out into the late morning air in thick white clouds.

"'Balmy weather.' Only in freaking South Dakota."

"Dean?"

Dean peeked around his arm. Sam was standing a few feet away, next to the jacks that Bobby had neatly lined up at the side of the driveway.

"What is it, Sammy?"

"You talking to yourself?"

"What can I say?" Dean bent forward to check the fill cap again. "It gets lonely out here, working on Baby by myself all day."

"I thought you liked the peace and quiet."

Dean straightened up and turned around. "I do."

"I, uh—" Sam held out a plate. "I made you a sandwich. Figured you might be hungry."

"Awesome." Dean pushed himself away from the hood and walked to the garage sink. "Yeah, I didn't eat much for breakfast. Figured I wouldn't wake you up with the noise from the kitchen."

"How long you been up?"

"I don't know, since seven or so? I came out here and started working a few hours ago."

Dean scrubbed the pumice hand cleaner into his nails and the grooves between his fingers. Orange-scented steam billowed up into the open-air garage.

"You could've woken me up," Sam said. The wind whistled through the rows of cars, and Sam tossed his hair away from his eyes.

"Woken you up?"

"To help with the car."

Dean raised his eyebrows derisively. He reached for one of the towels on the towel rack.

Sam held out the sandwich. "I just...figured I'd offer."

"Thanks for that." Dean tossed the towel away. "You know what, Sammy? I may be a crappy hunter compared to you, but fixing up Baby is one area where I definitely don't need your help."

Sam's expression darkened. "What the hell, Dean? I thought you were over this."

"Why's that, Sam? Because you are?"

"Don't you think you've been mad at me long enough? What point are you trying to prove?"

Dean rolled his eyes and snatched the sandwich out of Sam's hands. He crammed one of the halves into his mouth and chewed.

_Demonstrations turned into riots in southern France today, following the desecration of saintly remains enshrined in churches along the routes of Santiago de Compostela. Protesters are criticizing French authorities and the Vatican for a response they see as inadequate._

Sam squinted at the Impala. "You're listening to NPR?"

"I can listen to the news if I want," Dean said, through a mouthful of tuna.

_Witnesses claim that the relics were stolen and burned by Catholic priests and nuns in town squares, in full view of the public._

Sam grimaced. "Sounds like our kind of thing. Hope the hunters over there are on it."

"France," Dean said, under his breath. He swallowed down the crust. "Cass."

"Cass?"

"Cass told me last night that he'd just got back from France. He was defending some seals there. This has got to be related, Sam." Dean strode to the Impala; Sam followed him, close behind.

"Hang on, Cass was here last night?"

"Not here." Dean sat down in the driver's seat and turned up the radio. "He dropped in on me when I took the car into town to get supplies after dinner."

"Wait, I thought you said that he visits to help you with your nightmares?"

"Most of the time, yeah. But sometimes he's just there to tell me stuff."

"Tell you stuff?"

"Yeah." Dean looked down at the Impala's floor mat. The story from France had finished; now, a different reporter was talking about the Obama administration's latest efforts to combat the recession.

"Like what?"

"You know." Dean shrugged. "Stuff."

Sam's nostrils flared. His lip spasmed.

"We sort of...hang out."

"You hang out?" Sam leaned on the car door and peered down at Dean from on high. His eyes narrowed into the shrewd, strigine stare that he wore when he was on the precipice of breaking open a case.

"Yeah."

"You and Cass?"

"Yes, Sam, me and Cass. Is it that hard to believe we've had a conversation here and there? I do talk to people other than you and Bobby, you know."

"Okay, sheesh."

Sam turned and looked off into the distance, in the direction of Bobby's house. Dean bit into the other half of the sandwich.

"So, uh, what were you saying about Cass and France, again?"

"Oh." Dean dusted the crumbs from his hands and turned off the radio. "Cass told me last night that something was off with his mission. That's why he left before we got back here: he thought he'd go upstairs to ask around. Try to figure out what the hell's going on."

"Huh. You think something's up?"

"No idea, Sammy." Dean brushed past Sam and squatted down at the front of the car. He slid the oil pan towards him with both hands; it scraped against the frosty ground.

"I don't know, Dean. It sort of seems like the angels are getting smoked. I mean, remember the Samhain thing? Cass told us then that they'd lost too many seals to take any chances. That was all the way back in October."

Dean grunted in acknowledgement. He lifted the oil pan and balanced it carefully as he made his way to Bobby's workbench, where an empty gallon jug stood waiting.

"Hang on, I'll help you." Sam jogged past him and held the funnel steady above the bottle.

"I could've done it. But thanks, I guess."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Just start pouring."

"Anyway," Dean said, as he tipped the pan. "If there's something rotten in Heaven, Cass will take care of it. He's a big boy."

"I mean, I guess he'll have to. It's not like we can do anything."

Dean smiled. He looked down into the collar of his coverall to hide his face.

"What?"

"Huh?"

"What's with the smirk, Dean?"

"Nothing, just—" The funnel was nearly full, so Dean evened out the oil pan and glanced up. "I was thinking about Cass."

Sam blinked. His breath paused, then came out with a snort. "What about Cass?"

"He told me yesterday that he'd spent one night in Paris." Dean resumed tipping the oil. "I told him that I'd seen that movie a few times."

Sam flung him a look of abject disgust. "You told an angel about your porn addiction?"

"He didn't know what I was talking about."

"Dean, that's not the point." Sam shuddered. "I feel dirty now."

"Yeah, well, hold that funnel still, Sammy. Or you really will get dirty."

Sam chuckled. They both watched the lazy, piceous sludge drain away.

"So," Sam said, once there was room in the funnel again. "What else do you and Cass do together, Dean?"

Dean glared at him. "What else do we _do_ together?"

"Yeah," Sam lilted. He met Dean's eyes, then grinned mischievously at the dull steel workbench.

"Other than?"

"Other than, I don't know, you dreaming about him—"

"I don't fucking dream about him, Sam."

"—And the two of you going for long drives together by yourselves."

"That's—" Dean dropped the oil pan to the counter with a clatter and put his hands on his hips. "That happened once, dumbass."

Sam pursed his lips and nodded. "Right. Okay."

"I can finish this." Dean wrenched the funnel away from Sam. "I'm sure the breeze out here is terrible for your hair, anyway."

Sam walked to the basin and washed his hands. "Hey, why not ask Cass to take you with him to Paris the next time he goes?"

"Why would I do that?" Dean barked.

"Why not? It'd be pretty romantic."

Dean glared at Sam over his shoulder. Sam laughed, finished drying his hands, and tossed the washcloth at Dean's face.

"Yeah, real mature." Dean threw the towel to the floor of the garage with a violent flick of his chin. He glared at Sam's back as he returned to the house. "Keep giggling like a high school chick if you like, Sammy. Just find us a case."

"Find you a Cass?" Sam yelled airily, from somewhere out of sight.

"Bitch," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes and turning back to the jug of exhausted oil. He tossed the funnel into the empty pan and screwed the bottle cap on tightly. For a minute, Dean stared down absently at the dim reflection of the firmament in the metal workbench. Alluring, impossible words and images, futures that existed in defiance of the apocalypse bearing down on them all, flitted around in his head and called out boldly, like songbirds at morning. He wondered at length, for the first time since he had been a young boy, what it would be like to fly.

 _Cass_ , Dean thought, before realizing that he had been standing idly in the cold, eyes closed and a simple smile on his face, for far too long.

"Where's the shelf for used oil?" Dean wondered aloud, even though he knew precisely where Bobby kept it. He picked up the jug, deposited it in the corner, and walked out into the sun. He looked around, licking his lips, as if at any moment Sam or Bobby would jump out of the shadows and tell him knowingly that they'd been watching him for the past few minutes.

 _Freezing rain tonight_ , Dean reminded himself. He looked at the Impala's radio. _Hopefully, we'll be back on the road before that._

* * *

For the first time in a long time, Dean was trapped. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew that he shouldn't be here; right now, though, he wanted to revel in it.

He was perched on a stool of twisted bronze, his knees flexed and torso angled forward, like a gargoyle about to take flight. A lancet dangled from his right hand. Across from him was a bound, filthy young man who looked to be in his late teens; for all Dean knew, he could be better labeled a boy. His eyes were screwed shut with dread, and Dean whistled "Highway to Hell" over his muted, forlorn whimpering.

"Let me guess," Dean finally said. "You don't belong here."

The boy opened his eyes charily. "What?"

"You don't look like a killer to me. Or a rapist, or a thief, or a bigot, or a bearer of false witness." Dean flicked his blade into the air and caught it with each item on the list. "Or whatever else they send people downstairs for."

"No, sir," the boy said, shivering.

"Of course not." Dean gave him a sympathetic smile. "You're a good guy who fell in with the wrong crowd, I bet. Maybe made a bargain you shouldn't have? One you regret?"

"I—I had to," he sputtered. "They said my parents would die if I didn't."

For a fleeting moment, Dean's practiced smile flickered. The scalpel fell still in his palm. The boy continued his explanations, but Dean didn't hear them. His eyes gazed off into the far distance, where his own rationalizations for what he had done beckoned to him from a point just out of reach.

"Sorry, kid." Dean cleared his throat and hopped down from the pedestal. "Everyone here's got a sob story. But orders are orders, and Hell is hell."

"No," the boy cried. "Please!"

Dean grinned and raised the lancet. He loved it when they begged.

"Dean!"

He felt an iron grip on his upper arm. Before he could react, the blade clinked to the ground, and he was sucked through a bright vortex into another world, where the smell of bacon and cinnamon wafted through the air and it was winter outside the foggy windows.

"I think I came at the right time," Castiel said, over the crackling of the maple logs in the fireplace. Dean felt in danger of wobbling on his feet, but Castiel's indefatigable hold on his shoulder prevented that.

"Cass." Dean looked around the cabin, evading Castiel's gaze. Even though he knew that Castiel was aware of everything he'd done in Hell, Dean couldn't meet his eyes.

Castiel guided Dean to the seat by the fire and eased him down. He crossed his arms and remained standing.

"I thought you told me that you weren't having nightmares anymore."

"I said they weren't happening as often," Dean said tartly. "Never said anything about them being gone for good."

"Well, I'm glad I could assist you, nevertheless."

"Like you assisted those people back in that town?"

Castiel looked up at the ceiling and pressed his lips together.

"Like you assisted Pamela? Hey, if you want to know why my nightmares are back, maybe it's because my friends are getting killed right in front of me."

Castiel sat down on the other side of the love seat. Dean closed his legs and shifted towards the arm of the sofa, broadening the distance between them.

"You've lost a lot of people," Castiel said.

"Too many."

Castiel leaned back and looked at Dean; Dean didn't return his gaze. They sat like that for some minutes.

"Let me guess," Castiel said at last. "You're upset with me. Again."

"Cass, I'm not even sure I want to talk to you right now."

Castiel nodded, and folded his hands together in his lap, and waited.

"You just let those people die," Dean said.

"Yes, I did."

Dean felt his chest tighten. "Why?"

"Why?" Castiel furrowed his brow.

"Why don't you care? Why doesn't your boss—dad, whatever—why doesn't he care?"

"Because." Castiel raised his open palm over the couch's empty space, locked his wrist, and flexed his fingers, as if he were balancing something friable and precious within them. "'All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.'"

"What, you're quoting Kansas to me now?"

Castiel frowned further. "Ecclesiastes."

"Oh." Dean shrugged. "Don't give me that look. I was an atheist until I met you. Still am, most days."

Castiel dropped his hand and lowered his eyes to the cabin's hardwood floor.

"To be honest, I still don't know why you bother with me, Cass."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because I've never believed in all this God crap. Sam, on the other hand—"

"Ah, yes." Castiel's voice was laced with uncharacteristic sarcasm. "Your brother Sam, whom Heaven deems an abomination. One of Azazel's children. A human through whose veins courses demon blood."

"Yeah, him. He's way more into you guys than I am."

Castiel rolled his eyes.

"There's one sure thing about your dad, since you're certain he's out there...somewhere. He definitely has a thing for irony."

"Even so," Castiel said wearily. "It's not my place to question him."

"Says who, Cass?"

Castiel turned to him. The half-light of the fire lent his visage a stark sense of foreboding. "Here's a question for you, Dean. How many times in your life have you stopped to question your own father?"

"Me?" Dean averted his eyes. "Looking back on it, maybe not as often as I should have."

"And, taking into account that my father is all-seeing and all-knowing—not to mention the creator of all that is—you can understand why I'm reluctant to doubt his plan."

"Look, ditch the metaphysical crap. Can you bring her back, or not?" Notwithstanding his words, the hostility had bled from Dean's voice, leaving behind a wistfulness that surprised him as soon as it left his mouth.

"I...wasn't aware that we were discussing that."

"She helped us," Dean said. "She helped _you_."

"I know," Castiel said.

"So, bring her back!"

"Dean." Castiel paused, peered into the fire before continuing. "I'm grateful for her assistance with the seal."

"Screw your gratitude. Are you going to do it, or not?"

Castiel clasped his hands together over his knees. The rich yellow firelight danced in his eyes. "I can't."

"You can't, or won't?"

"Dean—"

"Answer the question."

"I can't. When the other angels and I invaded Hell in search of you, we did so under Michael's direct orders. Raising the dead isn't something we do lightly. It's a contravention of fate."

"Yeah, I don't believe in fate."

"Whether you believe in it or not, Death has a plan for all the living. To flout that plan is a dangerous path down which even angels fear to tread."

Dean's scowl softened. He grinned irreverently. "You were just waiting to use that, weren't you?"

"Waiting?" Castiel cocked his head. "What?"

"Never mind."

"Believe me, Dean, if I could do what you're asking of me—if I had the powers of my father and Death—" Castiel faltered and looked down at his hands. "The world would be a very different place."

Dean clenched his jaw and watched him. This was one of the rare times he had seen Castiel betray any emotion.

"Your friend," Castiel said. "I didn't know her, but by helping to preserve the seal, she has done the work of saving the world."

"I'm sure that comforts her."

"I'm a soldier," Castiel continued, undeterred. "And it's not my department, but I imagine that any mortal who aids our work in the way your friend did would be brought up to Heaven. You can take solace in that."

"I don't," Dean said bitterly.

Castiel shrugged. He turned his upper body towards Dean and offered him a bland, mollifying smile.

"What's the point," Dean began, after a while. His voice was hushed and hoarse. "What's the point of fighting for the greater good if everyone close to us has to die?"

"You know the answer, Dean."

" _I_ know the answer? Me? The guy who gets second chances? And third and fourth ones? The guy who gets saved by the God squad, while you let better people die every day?"

"Better people?"

"You know it's true, Cass."

"You still don't think you deserve to be saved." Castiel said it under his breath, as if talking to himself.

"You saw what I did down there, Cass. You saw it all." Dean pointed to the door of the chalet, where the portal to Hell had disgorged them. "That kid? He traded his soul to a demon ten years ago so that his parents wouldn't be killed by a drug cartel. It was a month before his seventh birthday. Guy didn't even make it to seventeen."

"That is regrettable. Then again, you hardly deserved to go to Hell yourself."

"I did what I did to hundreds, maybe thousands of people. And yeah, some of them probably deserved it. But a lot of them didn't. A lot of them just made mistakes in life, mistakes all of us make. They just got punished for them. And I—" Dean broke off and turned away. He dug his fingers into the fabric of the love seat.

"You're too upset," Castiel said. "I doubt anything I say would be a balm to you right now."

"No, I doubt anything would be."

"I came to tell you about something that happened to me in Heaven after I got back from France, but it can wait for another time." Castiel stood up. "I can go, if...I'll go."

"Yeah." Dean glanced at him. "I just need some time to myself."

Castiel hesitated, then gently touched Dean's shoulder. "Call if you need me."

* * *

Once the last grains of salt had passed Alastair's lips, Dean stepped back and admired his handiwork. The gurgling that bubbled forth from the center of the devil's trap, the violent spasms of his victim's limbs rattling the metal bars of the hexacle, suffused Dean with an intoxicating wave of pleasure.

"Enjoying this, killer?" Alastair's head lolled forward, then back again. "Of course you are. You know why?"

"There's only one thing I want to know. Who's killing the angels?"

"Because it's who you are, boy. You're a deviant, just like your old master."

Dean looked down at the cart of torture implements and chuckled.

"You still get that delightful shiver at the nape of your neck, don't you?"

Dean checked the keenness of a pair of scissors. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"The pounding in your bloodstream? The quickening of your lungs? And let's not neglect—" Alastair winked at Dean's crotch. "The tightening in your trousers? That last is the telltale sign of a true sadist, my boy."

"You sure talk a lot for someone whose throat is burning away in real time."

The door to the antechamber cracked open. Dean turned around and quirked an eyebrow at Castiel.

"Cass?"

"Dean." Castiel grimaced at Alastair. "Do you have a moment? Outside?"

Alastair coughed wetly. "Aw, does your angel boyfriend need you for a little chat?"

"Shut up," Dean growled.

"Don't worry about me." Alastair spat a gob of blood to the floor and simpered. "I'll just be, you know, here."

Castiel stepped back and held the door open for Dean. Dean gave Alastair a parting glance at the threshold, then brushed past Castiel. He crossed his arms and gazed up at the ceiling.

"Wait, what happened to the lights?"

"Anna paid me a visit," Castiel said, once the door to the interrogation chamber had clicked shut behind him.

"Anna? What happened? Was there an angel-on-angel throwdown?"

"No," Castiel said, ignoring Dean's jest. "She wasn't here to fight. She wanted to help me. At least, I think so."

"Uh-huh." Dean paced around in a small circle, surveying the room. "So why's there broken glass everywhere?"

"The shattered bulbs? Energy overflows of nearby conduits, both organic and artificial, can happen when angels who are inexperienced with their vessels first manifest on Earth.... Or when an angel wants to impress an audience."

Dean walked back to Castiel and dropped his arms. "Which was it for you? You know, the night we met?"

"I'd...only entered Jimmy an hour before that," Castiel said. He opened his mouth to say more, then swallowed his words and looked down at the dirty floor. Dean watched him for a few seconds, until Alastair's murky, writhing form through the door's window caught his eye.

"So—what is it, Cass? I'm kind of getting my Spanish Inquisition on here."

"That's just it." Castiel leaned forward into the conference table and bowed his head. "I'm not sure this is right. I'm regretting getting you involved in it now."

Dean eyeballed him. "Now? Now, you're having regrets?"

"I had them before. Like I told you, I'd give anything for you to not be in the position you're in."

"By which you mean, elbow-deep in Alastair's bowels."

Castiel sighed. "Yes. If you must phrase it that way."

"And what brought this on?"

"Something Anna said." Castiel began to circumambulate the table. The shards of glass crunched and popped beneath his shoes. "It reminded me of something she told me years ago, when she fell. I've always just assumed that God gave his orders to either Michael or Raphael, who then gave orders to Zachariah, who then passed on those orders to me. And that all other angels received analogous orders from their superiors."

"Skip the heavenly personnel chart, Cass. Just get to the point."

"We're angels. We follow orders; we don't question them. And what if—what if what we're doing now isn't my father's will?" Castiel stopped walking and looked up at Dean.

"Cass," Dean groaned. He forced out a long, heavy breath. "Does any of that matter at this point? I've already crossed the Rubicon in there. You can't dump all this on me right now. It's too much, man."

"I know." Castiel reached for Dean's shoulder, but Dean twisted away from him. "Dean, if I've made a mistake, it's my responsibility. Give me time, and I can ask around in Heaven. Alastair's not going anywhere—"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this! You and Uriel kidnap me, force me to do your dirty work, and now you're having second thoughts?"

"Dean—"

"No, Cass." Dean drew himself up to his full height and stared down at Castiel. "You don't get to do this to me; you don't get to force me to reenact Hell, then back out just 'cause. You told me that angels are dying and you need my help to save them. Okay, fine. But you're going to stand here, and listen to Alastair's screams, and wait patiently for me to get you names. Are we clear?"

Castiel peered up at him, his fathomless blue eyes gauging Dean's resolve. The air in the drafty warehouse seemed to still itself on the moment and wait for the silence to break. Dean held his breath. They were close enough for him to feel the body heat radiating off Castiel in agitated waves.

"I'll say it again: are we clear?"

"No," Castiel murmured. "Dean, something about this doesn't feel right."

"Cass, _everything_ about this fucking mess doesn't feel right."

"I don't mean that, in there." Castiel barely inclined his chin in the direction of Alastair's babbling. "I mean you."

Dean started and stepped away. "Me?"

"Dean, I'm looking into your eyes right now, and I see something different." Castiel took another half-step towards him. "There's something there that wasn't there before. Something dark. And I don't like it."

"Yeah?" Dean licked his lips. "And who warned you about that? Didn't I say you wouldn't like what comes out of that room?"

Alastair yowled again. Castiel shook his head and evaded Dean's gaze.

"You of all people, Cass—you know what I did in the Pit. You know what I'm capable of. You saw it with your own eyes. Look at me, you son of a bitch." Dean lay a hand on Castiel's shoulder; Castiel reluctantly met his eyes. "You knew what you were getting when you brought me here. So let me do my thing."

"Dean." Castiel wheeled around as Dean pushed past him. "Dean!"

"Don't worry, Cass," Dean said, as he gripped the door handle. "I'll find out who's killing the angels. Nothing's going to happen to you." He smiled, hoping that Castiel wouldn't see through the artifice behind it, and let the door fall with a clank behind him.

* * *

Dean woke up to the drone of a vacuum cleaner in the corridor. The hospital room was dimly lit; there was just enough pale fluorescence for him to make out the edges of the medical equipment to which he was attached, as well as a small circle at the top of his bed. His neck was stiff and sore and turning his eyes to the room's window took immense concentration. Outside, between the heavy beige curtains, the world was dark, though just barely. Dean couldn't tell whether the day was fading into night or the night was yielding to morning.

"You're awake."

"Cass?" Dean's eyes sought movement in the shadows. Once he found it, he rested his head back on his pillow. "I didn't notice you there."

Castiel walked towards him, the light from the hallway crisscrossing over his trench coat. Once Dean was sure that it was him, he shut his eyes. It was hard to keep them fully open.

"Hello, Dean."

"Surprised you're back," Dean said. He was too weak to inflect his words with any emotion, but he felt comforted by Castiel's continued presence.

"Would you prefer that I leave?"

Dean opened his eyes. Castiel stood at the foot of the bed.

"No," Dean said. "I mean, you can if you want to. I just mean—I thought after everything that happened, you'd have to check in upstairs for a while."

"I did." Castiel walked to the chair at the side of Dean's bed and sat in it stiffly. "After our last conversation, I went to Heaven to seek answers. About Alastair, Uriel...."

"And? Did you find them?"

"No," Castiel admitted. "Only more questions."

Dean looked up at his IV bag and sighed.

"They didn't give me any new orders, so I returned here. Sam went to the motel a few hours ago to get some sleep. I promised him I'd watch over you."

"Surprised he went for that," Dean said. "He was pretty pissed at you earlier."

"He cooled down once I explained why I wasn't able to heal you more."

Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Alastair's powers are fiendish. As Hell's chief torturer, the wounds he inflicts aren't simply blows. They're augmented to maim and fester. The pain lingers longer than it should, even with angel healing."

"Sounds lovely."

"I did what I could for you, but you'll still have to rest for a couple days."

"Well, no objections here." Dean scanned up and down Castiel's body. "Wait, then why aren't you in worse shape? Sam said he barely got to you in time."

"My grace, along with my connection to Heaven, gives me regenerative capabilities far beyond those of humans. Or most demons, for that matter."

Dean's lips pulled into a smirk, though even that much motion was uncomfortable. "Can't keep a good angel down, I guess."

Castiel looked at the floor. Behind him, the sky was the purplish grey of a fresh bruise. Dean still couldn't tell whether the sun was rising or setting. In the hallway outside, the vacuum cleaner switched off, leaving behind an uneasy silence.

"We can talk now," Castiel said. "I'm sorry that I had to leave abruptly before."

Dean closed his eyes. "What, you want to talk about your feelings?"

"No. I thought you'd want to talk about yours. What you said about Hell, and your father—"

"You thought wrong," Dean said flatly.

"Very well."

Dean rested his eyes for a few minutes. He expected to hear the rustling of wings at any moment, but it never came. Eventually, he realized that his throat was parched.

"Pour me some water," Dean said, and opened his eyes again. "Please."

Castiel picked up the pitcher on the side table and half-filled a flimsy paper cup. He scooted his chair closer to Dean and held the water out to him.

"Do you need me to hold it for you?"

Dean rolled his eyes. He grabbed the cup and, even though his hands were trembling, managed to drain it without much difficulty.

"More?"

"No."

Castiel set the cup on the table and sat back in his seat to look at Dean again.

"Look, Cass, even though you told Sam you'd watch over me, that doesn't mean you have to _actually_ watch me. You know, like...this."

Castiel smiled. The tips of his hair glowed in the pink light from the window. The sky was definitely brighter now than when Dean had awoken. Sunrise, then.

"Are you hurting?" Castiel said.

It took Dean a few seconds to react.

"Uh, not really. I'm hopped up on a buttload of painkillers."

"I see."

"My head's a little foggy, and my tongue's wandering around in my mouth on its own, and I feel like my arms and legs each weigh a hundred pounds." Dean turned on his pillow and grinned at Castiel. "That said, I'll take dazed and confused over dead and in Hell any day."

Castiel seemed to laugh with genuine amusement at that. His head dipped down towards Dean, revealing the rose sky behind him.

"Dean," Castiel said, after a few seconds. He scraped the chair closer, only stopping when it was nearly flush with the bed. "I'm sorry."

Dean sighed. "Look, Cass, I get it. Your orders."

"No." Castiel shook his head. "No, I should have listened to myself. Should have listened to _you_. It was a corrupt endeavor from the beginning...."

Dean watched Castiel's lips as he talked. They were barely visible in the early morning light, yet seemed impossible to look away from.

"Dean?"

"Huh?" Dean met Castiel's eyes. "Sorry, the—the painkillers."

"I asked if I could tell you something."

"Hey, why not? You're already on a roll, Cass."

Castiel shifted in his chair. He slid his hand onto Dean's bed, then over his blanket, stopping once he'd arrived at Dean's left shoulder.

"Dean," he said. Castiel thumbed under Dean's hospital gown and stroked the faint ridge of seared skin where they had first touched. "When I walked into that torture chamber and saw you close to death; when Alastair bested me. If Sam hadn't come—"

"Yeah, but he did, Cass."

"Only by the grace of my father," Castiel said. His hand stopped with the rest of him for what appeared to be a silent benediction, then squeezed Dean's shoulder again. "Before he perished, Uriel told me that you were supposed to have died in that room. All so that he could keep me chasing angel-killing demons and other illusions. All so he could keep me close."

"Keep you close?"

"Uriel wanted to recruit me into his conspiracy. But he saw you as an obstacle to that. My...weakness." Castiel pulled his hand away and looked down at his lap. "He wanted me committed to Lucifer. According to Uriel, you're a distraction. You made me feel emotions. My loyalties were becoming divided at exactly the wrong time. Uriel's been warning me away from you for months."

"Cass, I—"

"It doesn't help that Uriel detests humanity, just as Lucifer did," Castiel continued. "He felt no remorse for his sabotage yesterday; of that, I'm sure. And if Sam hadn't shown up, you'd—I'd have lost you. The...world would have lost you."

Dean absorbed this. Castiel, seemingly finished, sat back in his chair and stared at the shadows in the far corner of the room.

"Say something, Dean," Castiel said.

Dean sniffed. "Cass, that's...that's a lot, man. And I'm not good at talking about this kind of stuff even when I'm not dosed up on opioids."

"Neither am I."

"Just promise me one thing."

"Name it."

"Don't ask me to do what I did in Hell again." Dean's eyes were beginning to burn with fresh tears. "I—I think about it every day. It haunts me every day. Some days, I can hardly stand it and I just want to give up. I can't do what you made me do again, Cass."

"I..." Castiel swallowed. "I think I can promise you that. Zachariah told me that he had no knowledge of Uriel's plan to use you to torture Alastair. He said that he would never have approved such a mission."

"You trust this guy?"

"I suppose I do," Castiel said. "He hasn't killed me yet, even though it would be easy for him to do so."

"Alright." Dean looked up at the ceiling. The dawn was painting the room rust and gold.

"Oh." Castiel fished inside the pocket of his coat. "We've been talking so much that I neglected something. Sam said to give this to you. He said you might get bored without something to listen to."

"Tell me it isn't that little piece of plastic crap."

Castiel dangled a pair of earphones in the space between them.

"Of course it is. Hang on." Dean ripped the nasal cannula from his face and tossed it to the side of the bed. "Don't want to get tangled up."

"Dean."

"I can breathe fine, Cass. Just—" Dean raised his left hand a few inches off the mattress, beckoning to the earphones.

"Don't move," Castiel chided. "I can do it."

"So bossy."

"Giving orders comes naturally to me; I'm a captain in the army of Heaven." Castiel leaned forward in his chair, then stopped himself. "Or I was, at least."

"Yeah, I don't think you're helping your case with them right now. Being here, I mean."

"I don't care," Castiel said roughly. He slid one earbud into Dean's ear, then the other, the side of his hand brushing over Dean's lips along the way. Castiel's skin was hot and soft and bore his distinctive scent of fruit, wine, and the tempestuous sky. With a sigh, Dean lifted his head from the hospital pillow and looked at him.

Castiel's hand moved to cup the back of Dean's head. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah." Dean smiled weakly. "Yeah. Somehow, everything's fine."

"I don't know what I'm doing," Castiel said, raising Sam's iPod by way of explanation. "He just asked me to press play."

"Alright then, let's see what Sammy put on my playlist."

Castiel tapped the button at the center of the iPod's wheel and laid it down on the bed beside Dean. Once the first few seconds of the song had streamed through the earphones, Dean chuckled.

"Of course."

Castiel tilted his head. His eyes darted around Dean's face quizzically. Dean plucked the earbud from his right ear and offered it to Castiel.

"Me?"

Dean thrust his hand at him. "You see anyone else in here?"

Castiel moved his chair closer to the head of the bed and bowed forward to accept the other half of the earphones. He mounted it above his earlobe clumsily, requiring several attempts.

"You okay there?"

"I think." Because of the limited span of the earphones, Castiel had to lean forward and rest his chin on the side of Dean's bed.

"Well, start the track over, now that you're finally hooked up. You've got to hear the entire thing."

Castiel obliged him. Despite his sedated state, Dean was fervidly aware of how close Castiel's face was to his.

"Dad was never the biggest Pink Floyd fan," Dean said. "Not sure why."

"That's...this?"

"Yeah," Dean said. He rolled his head fully to the left and looked into Castiel's eyes. "Just nod if you can hear me."

After a second, Castiel nodded slowly. He looked perplexed. Dean laughed and clutched his midsection.

"Cass, you shouldn't make me laugh. My ribs hurt."

Castiel's expression tensed with concern. He placed his hand on Dean's chest. "I didn't know, Dean."

Dean swallowed. He crept his fingers over Castiel's wrist, holding it down. Castiel made no move to escape.

"Nah, don't apologize. If I'm laughing, I'm living, right?"

Castiel's eyes flicked from his hand to Dean's lips, then back again.

"Dean, I've always felt emotions in some form. Maybe that makes me a defective angel; Uriel seemed to think so. Or maybe God created me that way. I don't know. What I do know is that ever since the day I found you in Hell and we returned to Earth together, I've been feeling...more."

He looked away and attempted to withdraw his arm, but Dean held fast to it.

"What are you saying?" Dean said.

"When I see you like this—" Castiel rubbed his thumb over Dean's collarbone. "The fact that you're hurting, and I can't do anything about it, and I feel pain because of that, even though that should be impossible for me...." Castiel trailed off, took a breath, and looked to Dean for an answer. "What does that mean?"

 _What do I feel?_ Dean thought, from somewhere in the deep-down, locked-away sliver of himself that still thought he deserved happiness; the part of himself that mused about what it would be like to fly.

"Dean?"

A dam in Dean's mind broke open with the viciousness of a thunderclap. The sight of his celestial protector, his savior, the proud and resolute warrior who enforced Heaven's will, broken and humbled by his concern for him, struck something ablaze in Dean that he had never wanted to admit was there. He yanked on Castiel's wrist and leaned into him. The torpor he'd felt throughout his body melted away in an instant, replaced by the ungainly and thrilling crash of Castiel's lips onto his. Both sides of the earphones tumbled to the bed.

 _He's burning hot_ , Dean noted, as his own lips trembled against Castiel's impassive mouth. He remembered Castiel's heat from the night in the motel parking lot by the Missouri River, but feeling it from his mouth—sharing the same breath with him—was exhilarating. Underneath Castiel's skin, his angelic blood seemed to whisper with terrifying and forbidden power. For several seconds, as he tried to prise open Castiel's lips with his own and met only bafflement, Dean felt like a guppy that had leapt out of its bowl and awaited certain death in the open air.

Finally, Castiel seemed to relax. The muscles of his forearm slackened in Dean's grip, and the tension in his face thawed. His nose tipped off to the side; his mouth yielded to Dean. Dean kissed the outside of Castiel's lips a final time before coaxing them open. Castiel's right hand gripped the nape of Dean's neck: his fingers were too rough at first; then, once he seemed to realize his own strength, overly pliant. Dean didn't care much, as long as they remained there.

Time was transfixed, puzzling over the inhumanly neutral taste of Castiel's mouth and unhooking itself from the clawing of Dean's fingers in Castiel's silky, windblown hair. The orange light from the window pulsed and faded over Dean's eyelids with each fumbling move Castiel made to match Dean's hungry advances. Even so, it was only a few seconds before the clock ticked again, and Castiel tore away from Dean as if singed.

"Cass? What's—"

"Dean," Castiel said. With his disheveled hair, flushed skin, and stunned expression, he had the look of a man who'd been struck by a bolt of lightning. "Dean, that shouldn't have happened."

"No, it's—it's okay, man. I'm okay. I think."

Castiel stood up and took a step back, shoving the chair away when it obstructed him. After a moment, he clutched his temples with both hands and doubled over. A high-pitched whine resonated from his body.

"Cass?" Dean sat up and watched him with alarm. "Cass, you okay?"

"No," Castiel panted. He let go of his head, but remained stooped over. "What we just did was wrong."

"What, two guys?"

"A human and an angel," Castiel snarled. He glanced up at Dean, but avoided his eyes. "I have to leave now. I'm being called."

"Cass, hold up!" Dean said, but he was yelling at empty air. "Goddammit!"

Dean huffed; even through the painkillers, his agitation was causing each of the tender spots where Alastair had pummeled him to throb. He lay back in the bed and blinked away tears of shock, then reinserted the nasal cannula and breathed in thirstily.

 _Shouldn't have happened_ , his mind repeated to him. _Wrong_.

Even back in the Pit, he hadn't felt as powerless as he did right now.

After a few minutes of breathing, the hurt subsided. He wasn't as desensitized as he had been five minutes ago, but there was no going back to that. Dean dragged the iPod towards himself and fiddled with the earphones. He pressed the back button, queuing up "Comfortably Numb" from the beginning, and rolled over onto his side to watch the sunrise over the plains.


	12. All My Little Words

It was odd, this feeling of dread that Castiel felt upon touching down in Heaven. The momentary trepidation he had experienced just before the incursion into Hell paled in comparison. Castiel allowed himself a rueful smile at the irony in that as he paced in the hallway before Zachariah's office.

By the volume and insistence of Zachariah's call, Castiel was sure that he had been observing him. Castiel had suspected that that was the case: Zachariah was much more of a micromanager than Anna, and it was naive to think that Uriel's whisper campaign against his command had been the only reason for Zachariah's ever more stringent scrutiny. He had been a fool to believe that Zachariah would accept his burgeoning relationship with Dean without a few fail-safes.

Then again, what had just happened wasn't Castiel's fault. If he had been watching, Zachariah surely knew that.

_But I kissed him back._

Castiel shook his head. Those few confused, clumsy seconds, during which he had been more concerned about hurting Dean's weakened body than anything else, hardly seemed worth the wrath that was about to descend upon the two of them. He didn't see why humans valued the gesture so much.

"Hey, Castiel," said a voice behind him.

"Samandriel." Castiel stopped pacing; he uncrossed his arms. "I haven't heard your voice in a while."

"Yeah, I've been on an undercover assignment for the past few months, so I don't join the chorus with everyone else. It's a little too conspicuous."

"Humans can't perceive that we're communicating telepathically."

"It isn't humans," Samandriel said. "Well, normal humans. I'm posing as a member of the Grand Coven. We're trying to disrupt the economy of Hell, and apparently a lot of it flows through witches."

"I see." Castiel surveyed Samandriel's cloudy eyes, flyaway hair, gnarled hands, and stooped posture. "That explains the vessel."

"Her appearance is part of why I thought she'd be receptive to my overtures. Until recently, witches striking bargains with demons was seen as unseemly—a sign of middling magical aptitude. On demon pacts and...other matters, she's a bit of a traditionalist."

"Or a stereotype," Castiel replied.

"Well, we can't all look like you." Samandriel tapped his chin. "Actually, we probably could, but saving all of Dad's creations isn't a beauty pageant."

Castiel looked down and sighed.

"Brother?" Samandriel said cautiously.

"Yes?"

"Why are we talking about our vessels?"

"I'm anxious, Samandriel." There was little point in dissembling now, and Samandriel was the gentlest of Castiel's siblings. "I've made a mistake, and I'm trying to avoid thinking about it."

"You know that doesn't help."

"Yes."

"What was it? Do you want to tell me?"

Castiel glanced at Zachariah's office door. "I've become too close to one of my charges."

"Ah."

"Far too close." Castiel gauged Samandriel's reaction. He didn't seem scandalized or even very surprised.

"Ah," Samandriel repeated. "Dean?"

"Not you, too. Is everyone in Heaven talking about me?"

"You have to admit that it's a compelling morsel of gossip. Our kind love irony: you, of all angels, going weak in the knees for a human is a man-bites-dog story if there ever was one."

"I'm not—that isn't what's going on." Castiel glowered at him. "Though I'm glad to know I'm providing you with entertainment."

"But it isn't very ironic after all, is it, brother?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Your whole—" Samandriel waved a few blotchy fingers over Castiel's face. "Dour, monotonous drone act."

Castiel looked down as Samandriel tapped his fingers to his heart.

"We both know there's more going on in there than you let on," Samandriel said.

"Nothing's going on in there," Castiel snapped. "I'm an angel of the Lord."

"So was Anna. And you were always as vulnerable to emotions as her. Perhaps more."

"But Anna chose to fall. She was selfish."

Samandriel's eyes gleamed. "Then you _are_ feeling emotions."

"I don't know." Castiel paced from wall to wall in the corridor. "If I am, it's not because I want to feel them. It shouldn't even be possible."

"According to everything we're told. But first Anna, now you—"

"Stop comparing us. Even if I'm feeling emotions, I haven't turned my back on Heaven, as she did." Castiel brushed past Samandriel and listened at the door of Zachariah's office. "Come on. Where is he?"

"Is Zachariah supposed to be meeting you?"

"He called me to Heaven, so I came to his office," Castiel said, and frowned. "Curious. I'm sensing him in Florence Nightingale's heaven. I should probably go there."

"It'll be fine, Castiel. Just tell him what happened. Zachariah's always liked you."

"I find that hard to believe." Castiel took a step and prepared to fly away, but turned back to Samandriel. "I'm wondering."

"What?"

"How did you know I've been feeling emotions? I keep my mind blocked off from other angels."

"Oh, I haven't tried looking in on your thoughts. I'm not that nosy."

"Yet you've been talking to other angels about me."

"I've mostly been overhearing. Like I told you, I can't do a lot of talking where I am."

"Just answer the question, Samandriel."

"Castiel...I don't know if anyone's ever told you this, but you're not good at pretending." Samandriel shuffled towards him and placed a hand on his forearm. "I think most of us know that, beneath your grim soldier exterior, there's a heart full of wildflowers."

Castiel caught himself smiling. He shook off Samandriel and crossed his arms.

"We're in a war. Now isn't the time to be maudlin." He offered Samandriel a conciliatory nod. "Goodbye, brother."

Castiel closed his eyes and flew to the sector of Heaven where Florence resided. He could feel Zachariah's presence radiating through her door.

_Why would he be waiting for me here?_

He pushed open the door and walked down the sunny, teal-tiled hallway, giving a nod to Florence as he passed. White linen curtains and the smell of antiseptic hung around each patient's bed. Zachariah was at the end of the hallway, by the window that overlooked the English garden at the rear of the hospital.

"Ah," Zachariah said. He was lying on a mattress, his fingers steepled above his chest. "You're finally here."

"Zachariah." Castiel cleared his throat. "I came as soon as you called."

"Good. Come and sit by my bedside."

"Why?"

Zachariah's eyes flashed darkly. "Because I asked you to."

Castiel moved the short stool up to the head of the bed and sat down gingerly.

"Now, do you mind telling me what in Dean's name you were doing down there just now?"

"You mean...what in Dad's name."

"Do I?"

Castiel dropped his eyes. "I don't know what you're implying," he mumbled.

"Oh, please." Zachariah gripped Castiel's jaw and jerked his face upright. "Drop the pretty-but-stupid act. It doesn't suit you."

Castiel nodded silently as Zachariah released him.

"Well?"

"After I wrote my report and conferred with you about Alastair and Uriel—and Sam's use of his powers—I returned to Dean's hospital room to heal and watch over him. I thought I...owed that to him, after what he did for us. After the mistakes in our operation."

"Were you ordered to do that?"

"I was not. But you did give me twenty-four hours to myself. To recover from the ordeal."

Zachariah canted his head. "I kind of meant more...relax in your office, or on that beach in Hawaii you like so much. Not 'run back to Dean Winchester at the soonest possible opportunity.'"

"That wasn't specified in my orders."

"Keep going," Zachariah sighed.

"Dean and I talked. I wanted to make him feel comfortable. I want him to trust me—us."

"And then?"

"He...made advances on my vessel. I'd never been in that position before, so I was caught off-guard. But I swiftly discouraged him."

"Yeah," Zachariah said skeptically. "But you could have been swifter."

Castiel nodded. He couldn't deny that. "How did you know about this?"

"Don't worry about that. Let's just say, wherever the Winchesters go, we have some of our loyal people watching their movements."

The drape over the window fell still; the low buzz of the hospital wing went silent for a second.

"I thought I was our loyal person watching over the Winchesters," Castiel said evenly.

Zachariah regarded him. He was still lying in the hospital bed, which Castiel found increasingly unsettling.

"It never hurts to have a backup plan. As a captain in the field, you know that as well as anyone."

They were silent for a while. Even though he felt like he'd been slapped, Castiel endeavored to maintain his composure.

"What would you have me do now?" Castiel finally said.

"Well, that all depends on you."

"On me?"

"You can't be a servant of two masters, Castiel." Zachariah unclasped his hands and juggled the air. "Heaven, Dean—it's either one or the other. I know which one I'd choose."

"How is that even a question? I'm an angel of the Lord. I serve Heaven. I've always served Heaven."

"And Dean?"

"Dean is...just a man. How could a man replace God in my heart?"

Zachariah grinned a toothy grin. "And the next time you're sitting by his sickbed and—" Zachariah grasped Castiel's wrist and squeezed. "—He grabs hold of you, full of need?"

"I won't put myself in that position," Castiel said. He shook off Zachariah's hand, stood up, and walked to the window. In the garden below, Florence was walking with one of the convalescents.

"Good enough," Zachariah said. Castiel heard the creaking of the bedframe; then, Zachariah was beside him at the window.

"What are my orders?" Castiel said, though he resented having to say it.

"I'm putting you on a bit of a timeout," Zachariah replied. He pushed aside the drape and peeked down at the walkers. "Stay in Heaven for a bit and think about what you've done."

"You're suspending me?"

"That's such a cold, bureaucratic word." Zachariah patted Castiel's shoulder. "Think of it as a...paid vacation. Take a couple days to relax. Talk to other angels. Put some mental space between yourself and Dean."

"You can't be serious; there's no time for that. What about the seals?"

Zachariah rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. The seals. Don't worry about them. We're about to turn a corner. I feel it."

"And the Winchesters?"

"Now, how'd I know you'd ask about those two?" Zachariah's eyes hardened. "I'll be taking your place for a few weeks. I'll watch over them personally."

Castiel swallowed. "That's not necessary—"

"It very much is, Castiel," Zachariah interrupted. "I have to go down there and associate with humans—which is so below my pay grade, but we all make sacrifices—because, as your superior, I'm on the hook for cleaning up the mess you've made."

"I apologize."

"Yes, I know. You don't need to give me those puppy dog eyes."

"You'll...talk to Sam and Dean?"

Zachariah waved his hand dismissively. "Too inefficient. I'll wipe their memories and put them through a little training exercise. Michael wants to make sure that Dean is ready. It won't be long now."

"But we'll stop Lilith."

"Of course we will, Castiel." Zachariah soughed. "But if we don't."

"Will you need me for any of this?"

"You can resume your normal duties in three days." Zachariah poked Castiel's breastbone with his index finger. "But don't interfere in the simulation."

"That goes without saying."

"You shouldn't have to interact with the Winchesters at all," Zachariah continued. "The rat maze I'll be dropping them into shouldn't be very hazardous. But just in case: if you have to step in, don't reveal who or what you are. The exercise has to remain pure."

"I understand."

"Off you go, then. Three days in Heaven, then back to your mission."

Castiel bowed his head and readied himself to fly to his office.

"And Castiel?"

"Yes?"

"I'm giving you one last chance. Don't make me regret it." He sniffed and raised his wings. "You don't want to plummet into the dirt like a plucked chicken, do you? It didn't work out so well for Anna."

The drape quivered with Zachariah's disappearance. Castiel looked down at the empty hospital bed and listened to the chirping of the swallows in the grass below, among the sick and wounded.

* * *

Castiel had been standing at the door of his office for several minutes, watching Jimmy's slumbering form. Jimmy was tangled up in the sheets from his habitual tossing and turning. The shaft of light from the window fell across his unconscious face.

He wasn't sure how Jimmy felt about what had transpired. He also wasn't sure what to say to him. With a resigned sag of his shoulders, he realized that he was coming to rely on Jimmy more and more when it came to interpreting both of their feelings.

_I didn't always feel this deeply. Did I?_

Castiel walked to Jimmy's bed and sat down. He wondered what Zachariah was doing with Dean and Sam. His speculations troubled him, especially since Dean was still recovering from Alastair's attack. He comforted himself with the knowledge that, given Michael's orders, Zachariah would neither irreparably harm nor unnecessarily antagonize Dean. That rendered both brothers reasonably safe.

Still, it was a cold comfort.

Castiel took a deep breath and placed his hand on Jimmy's shoulder. Jimmy's eyes fluttered open; he squinted at Castiel.

"Cass—Castiel?"

"Hello, Jimmy."

Jimmy rubbed his eyes and flexed his neck from side to side.

"I...had to go to a meeting. I left you here to sleep."

"Okay." Jimmy sat up, yawned, blinked. For a fleeting moment, Castiel hoped fruitlessly that he had imagined everything from the last two days: the selection of the abandoned warehouse for Alastair's interrogation, their abduction of Dean, Alastair's attempt on their lives, Uriel's betrayal. Most of all, he wished that his time in Dean's hospital room had been an elaborate hallucination.

"Castiel," Jimmy said. His voice was deeper than normal; less eager. "Can we talk about something?"

"Yes."

Jimmy pushed the covers off and swung his feet to the ground. He sat on the edge of the bed beside Castiel.

"We can talk about whatever you want," Castiel said, mostly to fill the silence. "I'm confined to Heaven for three days, so we have the time for it."

"Confined? Because of...."

Castiel lowered his head and nodded.

"Castiel, about what happened at the hospital. With Dean. I...don't know how I feel about it."

"Neither do I, Jimmy."

"I mean, I know I feel awkward right now."

"I imagine that's the term for the discomfort I'm feeling as well."

Jimmy glanced at him. "What'd you feel at the time?"

"A lot of things. Everything. I'm not sure."

"'Cause I was watching, and it looked pretty tender to me."

"Maybe. Perhaps. I was ministering to one of my charges."

"Castiel, please."

"Jimmy?"

"It's not just that. Maybe on the surface, but what you were feeling? The way he was looking at you?"

Castiel rose up, walked to the window, and stood before it, looking down at the Garden of Heaven. The warmth of the sun caressed his face.

"At the dawn of creation, God told my kind to love humans in a way surpassing the love we felt for him, our father. I try to follow that command, even if most of the angels have forgotten it. I...love Dean, for he is a man; and I love humanity."

"Yeah, but—Dean means more to you than that. There's this...energy you direct towards him that you don't offer to his brother. Or any of the other humans we've come in contact with."

Castiel sighed. "I can't deny that, Jimmy."

Jimmy padded across the carpet and joined Castiel at the window. He patted Castiel on the back gingerly.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" Castiel said. He gestured to the view below them.

"Down there?"

"Yes."

"Will I be okay?"

"Well, normally humans have to die before they can be in Heaven at all. But angelic hosts have a special dispensation. Every angel will recognize you as my true vessel."

"I feel so special." Jimmy scratched his head. "Let me have a coffee first."

Castiel sat at his desk and looked at the ancient Assyrian dagger that Uriel had given him as a gift a few hundred years ago, then leaned back in his chair and listened to Jimmy sip his coffee. He realized that, since shortly after he and Zachariah had parted, he hadn't been feeling feedback from Dean's wounds. Perhaps Zachariah had found a way to restore him.

"I'm ready, Castiel." Jimmy patted his lips with a napkin. "This is incredible. I'm about to walk through Heaven."

They made their way down the maze of hallways that connected the offices of high-ranking angels with the central garden. At one of the crossroads, Jimmy asked Castiel what awaited in the opposite direction.

"The Throne of Heaven, where Michael sits in God's absence."

"Michael," Jimmy echoed in awe. "What's he like?"

"Resolute, peremptory. Fair, but not very merciful. Many times more powerful than even the other archangels." Castiel beckoned to him. "Don't lag behind me, Jimmy."

They reached the portal to the garden. Like all other angels, Castiel saw Eden here: the primordial, perfect landscape, crafted by God himself. Some angels found the garden meditative, but Castiel always felt troubled when he visited it. It was the place in the universe that most reminded him of his father's absence.

"This is—what?" Jimmy erupted with peals of laughter. He jogged forward to the closest fork in the path and peered around.

"What do you see, Jimmy?"

"This is the Botanic Garden in Washington, D.C. I'm sure of it." Jimmy crouched down to sniff some blooms that were invisible to Castiel. "Amelia and I walked through here on one of our first dates, back in college."

Castiel smiled. He had watched over Jimmy for his whole life, but had never taken an interest in him as a person, or in minutiae like his and Amelia's courtship. As Jimmy marveled at the flowers and trees from his memories, Castiel found himself regretting that. The goodness of Jimmy's mortal soul left Castiel feeling humbled.

"Castiel!" Jimmy called. He waved to him from further up the path, where a small pond was surrounded on three sides by a stand of amaranth. Castiel flew to him.

"You remember this place fondly."

"Amelia and I...our first kiss was right here." Jimmy sat down on air and looked over his shoulder at the pond. "She was resting on this bench, drinking from her bottle of water. The place is kept warm and humid year-round, so when you come in the winter in all your layers, you start heating up pretty quickly. I sat down with her and we talked about the places we wanted to travel. Back then, I thought the fact that I'd been to Ontario made me worldly." Jimmy snorted. "Man, I was tripping over myself, trying to impress her."

Castiel sat down next to him. He placed his hands in his lap and waited for Jimmy to continue.

"And at some point, she just...kissed me." Jimmy beamed down at the grass. "We were both eighteen. The world felt so full of hope then, you know? The Berlin Wall had fallen, apartheid was ending in South Africa...." Jimmy trailed off; his smile faded. "I miss her, Castiel."

"I know."

"What happened between you and Dean—don't get me wrong, I don't have any problem with two men." Jimmy tilted his head and looked off into the distance, where hundreds of slabs of marble led, stairway-like, through an apple orchard and to the top of a hill. "Actually, when I was at Christian sleepaway camp in Michigan one summer, I kissed a boy. But we were eleven and bored."

"Jimmy."

"My point is, I want to remain faithful to Amelia." Jimmy turned to him; his eyes were wet and wide. "We're married. I love her. Please—"

"Of course, Jimmy." Castiel patted Jimmy's hand. "I'm sorry for all this. I didn't mean for any of it to happen. And I swear to you: I won't let it happen again."

Jimmy hung his head. He accepted Castiel's hand, and his tears spilled into the crevices between their skin.

"Zachariah is...erasing Dean and Sam's memories right now. I assume that means that Dean won't remember what happened between us today."

"Okay," Jimmy said hoarsely.

"Shall we...keep walking?"

Jimmy wiped his face with the back of his hand and nodded. They strolled up the path towards the marble steps. Castiel matched his pace to Jimmy's.

"May I confide in you, Jimmy?" Castiel said. "Will you keep my secrets?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Who would I tell?"

"You have a point." Castiel held a low-hanging bough of apples away from the path until Jimmy passed, then released it.

"But I'd remain true even if I had someone else to talk to," Jimmy said. "I've seen what you do to people who make you angry."

Castiel smiled wanly. Above them, the apple branches were overlapping more and more thickly, and he and Jimmy had to be careful with their footing in the mottled sunlight.

"I'm not like other angels," Castiel began. "I've never been an unthinking, unfeeling weapon. Since my earliest memories, I've felt things. I don't know: it could be that every angel feels emotions, but most of them are better than I at ignoring them."

"Like Uriel?"

"Perhaps. One could argue that Uriel had an excess of emotion—envy, anger, pride. Lucifer was like that, as well. On the other hand, maybe Uriel didn't have the emotions he needed to resist Lucifer's seduction: temperance, compassion, mercy. Love."

Jimmy paused to take a breath. They were nearly at the summit now. "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal."

"Yes," Castiel said. "Do you need to take a break?"

Jimmy shook his head. "I need the exercise. I think I'm just not as young as I used to be."

They ascended a few more stairs before Castiel continued his speech. He could almost feel the breeze from the top of the hill.

"I had these feelings; I thought I could banish them by practicing detachment and reserve. I talked only when necessary. When I felt...anything, I flew and sat by myself until I felt no more. I developed a reputation among the angels for repression."

They stood side by side at the threshold of a marble gazebo. Below, the fields of Paradise extended in every direction, warmed by an eternal sun. Castiel wished, with a longing that felt entirely different from when he pined for Dean, that Jimmy could see them with him.

"I guess it didn't work," Jimmy said, after catching his breath.

"It did," Castiel said pensively. "Until I met Dean."

"Ah."

"He...changed everything. And now I don't know whether I can go back to the way things were."

Castiel stared down at the floor of the gazebo, where tufts of grass grew up between the marble squares. Here, in the most perfect place in creation, his father still revealed himself in his imperfections.

"Do you want to?" Jimmy said finally.

Castiel glanced at Jimmy. _To be human_ , he thought. _To them, that question comes as easily as breathing._

"Do you, Castiel?"

"I'm not sure," Castiel responded.

"That's life." Jimmy slung his arm around Castiel's shoulders and offered him a sympathetic smile. His eyes glowed bright and blue in the sunshine. "No matter how much we trust God, sometimes we just have to trust ourselves."

Castiel reached up and rested his hand on Jimmy's. They stood there together, looking out at two different visions of paradise, until Jimmy said that his feet were tired and they returned down the steps of the mountain.

* * *

The last gleam of twilight had already faded from the confluence of the rivers, but a faint glow of it remained on the western sky. A cold, damp wind licked up the side of Mount Washington, buffeting the sides of Castiel's trench coat and rustling the tall grass along the ridge. A smattering of people in the park took pictures of the view of Pittsburgh. Castiel stood at the top of the hill, apart from the rest of them, and gazed at the distant lights of the Sandover Bridge & Iron building.

It had been four days since his exile in Heaven had ended. In that time, Castiel had checked on the status of his flight in person—with Uriel dead, Zachariah had restored him to captaincy. The other angels viewed Castiel as a hero for revealing Uriel's treachery and had clamored for his reinstatement. After the strain of all that had happened, that had lifted his spirits considerably.

Now, though, Castiel had time to watch over Dean. Even though Dean wouldn't recognize him for the duration of Zachariah's illusion, Castiel had decided to observe him from a distance. He didn't want to test Zachariah's indulgence.

Castiel smoothed down the sides of his coat and turned to leave. He had been taking in the view for an hour, and there was surely a seal somewhere that could use reinforcement.

He stepped onto the path and was almost instantly hit by a blow from the side. Castiel turned his head impassively, only to see Dean lying in the grass, knees up, clutching his chest.

"Oh, Christ!"

Castiel scrambled over and knelt down. Dean squinted up at him.

"What are you, made out of granite?"

"No."

"Ah." Dean screwed his eyes shut and coughed. "Let me guess, you just work out a lot."

"No, I've never worked out."

"Yeah, sure." Dean sat up. He winced with the effort. "No one likes false modesty, pal."

Castiel scrutinized Dean's chest. "May I...look you over?"

"Are you a doctor?"

"Among other things," Castiel replied. Dean gave him a bemused look, but lowered his hands. Castiel pressed his fingers to Dean's T-shirt and closed his eyes.

"Uh, you okay there?"

"There's no lasting injury," Castiel said. He stood, then hauled Dean to his feet by his forearm. "The pain will pass soon."

"Alright," Dean said hesitantly. "That still doesn't explain why I jogged into you and flew six feet back, and you're still standing."

Castiel averted his eyes. He spotted a clod of grass and dirt on Dean's left shoulder.

"You're dirty," Castiel said. He dusted the debris from Dean's sweatshirt, rubbed the fabric clean. A dull glimmer of recognition flashed in Dean's eyes.

"I should be going." Castiel said. "My apologies."

"Hang on," Dean said, holding Castiel's hand to his shoulder. "Do I know you?"

"No."

"Really?" Dean let go, but followed Castiel as he walked up the trail. "Because I'm sure I've met you before somewhere."

"I don't know. I get that a lot." Castiel stopped where the trail met the sidewalk. He resisted his urge to fly away, knowing that Dean witnessing it would break Zachariah's experiment.

"College, maybe? Did you go to Stanford?"

"Yes," Castiel said, with transparent exasperation.

"That must be it. Late nineties, early two-thousands, right? You were probably a TA for one of my classes."

"Maybe. I really should—"

"I mean, I'm not saying you're _old_. It's not that at all. You just look a few years older than me." Dean stopped under a streetlamp and chuckled. "Wow. Sorry, man. I'm not like this, usually. I think getting the wind knocked out of me makes me a little loopy."

Castiel stood with him in the circle of light and smiled just enough to set Dean at ease. This Dean had never killed; for that matter, he had never died. He was innocent when it came to the evil and violent things in this world. The guilt and shame and fear that had defined his life were scattered to the four winds. He could feel joy in a way that Castiel doubted the true Dean ever had. Castiel knew, as he looked into his insouciant eyes, that he wanted to meet this Dean, even if it meant encroaching on Zachariah's boundaries.

"You...may have a concussion," Castiel said. "I could take a look at you, just to make sure."

"At the hospital?" Dean glanced up the road. "Not really how I want to spend my Saturday night. My apartment's a few blocks away, though. How about you give me the once-over there, and if anything looks weird, then I'll go in?"

"Okay," Castiel said.

"Dean Smith," he said, extending his hand.

"James Novak," Castiel replied, after a second's hesitation.

" _Dr._ James Novak," Dean corrected. They continued their walk along the promenade. "Man, a doctor who went to Stanford. I think I'm feeling a little resume envy right now."

"I don't know what that is."

"Yeah, I bet you don't. No need to brag about it." Dean pointed to a crosswalk. "You had dinner yet? I'm on a cleanse right now, so I don't have a ton of normal food at my place."

"I...yes. I've already eaten."

"And I'm sure you'll give me the whole spiel about cleanses being junk science—I mean, every doctor does—but the thing is, man? It works. And it doesn't just clean out my body. I feel like I'm reorienting my spiritual connection to the Earth, if that makes sense."

"I see."

On the other side of the intersection, the awnings of the shopfronts grew closer together. Most of the restaurants were full, and people overflowed into vestibules and huddled under heat lamps at outdoor tables.

"First nice weekend of the year, everyone goes crazy." Dean shook his head. "I have to admit, I miss that Bay Area climate sometimes. Pittsburgh—let's just say no one lives here for the weather."

"It _is_ chilly," Castiel agreed.

"So, what's your specialty?"

Castiel glanced at him.

"Medically, I mean."

"Trauma," Castiel said, after a beat.

"A surgeon? Damn." Dean turned at the corner; he and Castiel bumped into each other. "Can't imagine the stress. I have this meditation practice—no pressure, but it's done wonders for my mindfulness. I could show you some of my books if you're interested."

"Thank you."

"That's my building up there," Dean said. He held out his hand. "My car."

"That's your car?" Castiel said.

"Yeah. Let me guess, you drive a Porsche?"

Castiel looked down at Dean's silver Prius and didn't answer.

"Well, I figure we all need to do our part to stop climate change." Dean kicked one of the front tires and crossed the street. "I try to avoid flying, too."

"Flying is unavoidable in my line of work, unfortunately."

"Surgery? Huh. I wouldn't have guessed that."

"Yes. How are you feeling?" Castiel said.

"Fine, doc. Do you hate when people call you that?" Dean scanned his keycard and held open the door for Castiel. "Sorry, couldn't help myself."

They got into the elevator. Dean pressed the button for the eleventh floor.

"I'm going to change quickly," Dean said, as they walked into his apartment. "These sweats are filthy. Just make yourself at home. There's the coat rack."

Dean turned on the lights in the living room and disappeared through a sliding wooden door. Castiel looked around at the cream and stained-walnut walls, then walked towards the dormant fireplace on the far side of the room. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Pittsburgh skyline glittered like a box of jewels.

On the other side of the wall, Castiel heard a shower nozzle blasting on and a glass door closing. He turned to Dean's bookcase and inspected the volumes: _Essentials of Management, Japanese Lessons for American Organizational Behavior, The Human Side of the Enterprise, Globalization: A Reader, International Marketing in the Twenty-First Century._ Castiel picked up one of them and leafed through it while he waited.

"Hey, James." There was a clicking sound behind Castiel, and the fireplace sprang to life. "Sorry for the wait. I hate being sweaty and dirty."

"It's okay." Castiel returned the book to the bookcase and turned around. Dean was wearing a pair of grey pajama bottoms and a white henley. His hair was still damp.

"You want to just—" Dean motioned to the black leather sofa. "Take a look at me on the couch?"

Castiel sat down, and Dean crossed his legs so that he could face him.

"Is this okay, or—"

"It's fine." Castiel pressed his fingers to Dean's neck and checked his pulse. "So, what were you doing before—"

"Before I ran into you?" Dean grinned. "Just on my nightly run, doing some of the Pittsburgh Steps. Earning my dinner calories. Jogging in the evening boosts nighttime fat burning."

"When you fell, did your head hit the ground? Did you feel pain in your head or neck?"

"No," Dean said, after a couple seconds of thought. "I pretty much fell on my back and my butt. My chest hurt, though, after colliding with you." Dean reached up and felt Castiel's bicep through his trench coat. "You sure you don't have an adamantium skeleton?"

Castiel looked at Dean's hand. "Not as far as I know."

"If you say so." Dean wet his lips and dropped his arm.

"What about now?" Castiel asked. "Do you have any kind of headache? Dizziness? Nausea?"

"Nope," Dean said. "Let me guess, you're about to ask me how many fingers you're holding up."

Castiel lifted two fingers and moved them in front of Dean's eyes.

"Two."

"Is your vision blurry at all? Can you see my face clearly?"

"Very much so," Dean said.

"What are your parents' names?"

"Robert and Ellen."

"Any siblings?"

"A sister. Joanna."

"Do you remember where you grew up?"

"Sioux Falls, South Dakota."

"And what did you study at Stanford?"

"Economics."

"And where are we now?"

"Pittsburgh. Mount Washington. My apartment."

Castiel sat back in the sofa, hoping that his show had been convincing enough. "You seem fine. If you feel anything out of the ordinary in the next few days, call your doctor."

"My dad always told me I have a hard head," Dean quipped. He stood up and walked to the refrigerator. "Can I get you anything, James? No booze, but I do have an espresso machine. Everyone likes frothy milk."

"No, thank you."

"I need to drink my after-dinner ginger and chia." Dean returned to the couch with a glass bottle. "Sounds strange, but it does wonders for my concentration the next day."

"You take care of your body," Castiel observed, as Dean sat down next to him again.

"Me?" Dean chuckled and punched Castiel's shoulder. "You're like a marble statue under that trench coat. I can tell."

Castiel looked down at his lap. "Thank you."

Dean took another swig of his ginger and chia drink, then stood up. "I forgot to put some music on. I've got just the playlist."

"Playlist?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, as a cheery acoustic guitar overlaid with a disillusioned male vocalist played from the sound system. "Nineties indie music. I haven't listened to this stuff in—I don't know. It takes me back to college like nothing else."

Castiel tilted his head to listen. Dean returned to the sofa.

"What'd you listen to?"

"What did _I_ listen to?" Castiel glanced at Dean. "Uh, this."

"The Magnetic Fields, _69 Love Songs_." Dean placed his empty bottle on the coffee table and exhaled wistfully. "And all the other pretentious bands Stanford kids were listening to. But who isn't pretentious at nineteen?"

Castiel found it hard to say anything. He could tell that the Dean he knew slept somewhere deep under the surface, expressing himself intermittently in the gestures and phrasings and facial tics of this one. The contrast between Dean Smith's exuberance, his comfort in his own skin, with Dean Winchester's self-loathing and tendency to wallow in his misery, could not have been starker. If the purpose of Zachariah's simulacrum was to convince Dean and Sam that they were happiest as hunters, it was bound to fail.

And yet, despite it all, Castiel found himself yearning for his Dean. The man beside him on the sofa, framed by the city lights across the river, beautiful and content and undamaged as he was, was not real.

The plucking of a mandolin at the start of the next song brought Castiel back to the moment. Dean had rested his feet on the coffee table and was looking out into the night.

"I hate this song," Dean said. "It makes me depressed."

"Why?"

Dean pointed to the stereo as the lyrics began.

_You are a splendid butterfly / It is your wings that make you beautiful._

"And I could make you fly away, but I could never make you stay," Dean sang, and shook his head. "Melodramatic breakup music, man. I played this on repeat more than once."

Castiel nodded sympathetically.

"Being in love with someone, wanting so badly for it to work out...but it just can't, you know? And it isn't your fault, it isn't their fault: it just is. You're too different." Dean looked into his eyes again. "You ever been there, James?"

"Yes," Castiel said. He laughed a small, bitter laugh. "I think I have, Dean."

"You feel like telling me about her? Or him?"

"Maybe some other time." Castiel laid his hand on Dean's shoulder. "I should be heading home."

"Oh." Dean looked at Castiel's hand. "Yeah, no problem. Wouldn't want to cut into your four hours of sleep."

"What?"

"Or is that an urban legend about surgeons?"

"The truth is," Castiel said, as he stood up. "We don't really sleep at all."

Dean pulled a face as he followed Castiel to the door. "That'll comfort me if I'm ever on the operating table. You need me to drop you off anywhere?"

"That's kind of you, but no." Castiel stopped by the kitchen island and turned to him. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"It's...nothing." Castiel took a deep breath and looked Dean up and down. "You just seem very happy. And I'm glad to have met you."

Confusion flickered across Dean's features. He glanced at his bedroom, then retrieved his wallet from the wooden bowl on his desk.

"Same here," Dean said. He handed Castiel a business card. "No doubt, if I had to run into someone and fall flat on my ass, I'm glad it was you. That's my number, if you ever want to hang out, do dinner sometime."

"Oh." Castiel slipped the card into the pocket of his trench coat. "I'd like that."

"If you're ever not, you know, saving lives." Dean rubbed his neck and laughed nervously as he opened the door for Castiel.

"Goodnight, Dean."

Dean raised his hand. "Night, James."

The music was still barely audible through the closed door, and Castiel listened to it for a little while longer. Then, he walked to the end of the hallway and stepped into the stairwell, preparing to fly away where no one would see him.

Very few things in the universe were impossible. As an angel, Castiel knew that intrinsically. But he felt in every wavelength of his being that too much had changed for him to go back to the way things never were.

What was real could be confusing and painful and unjust. But it was all that they had.


	13. N.I.B.

"Thanks," Dean said, as the waitress slid a platter of chilaquiles underneath his clasped hands. Out of habit, he tilted his neck to watch her walk back to the kitchen, but the sway of her hips wasn't titillating him as much lately. He was probably just bored.

Dean cleared his throat. "Cass, uh. I'm here, at our cafe. Again." He rolled his eyes at how pathetic he sounded. "Haven't seen you since...well, since you told me I was the only thing standing between us and the apocalypse."

 _Since you flew off like a son of a bitch as soon as I fell asleep,_ Dean didn't add.

"Anyway, um, I'm sure you've got your hands full, but it'd be good to see you again, man. Sam and I—we're in a little bit over our heads with this end of the world business."

Dean paused and glanced out the window. The narrow, dusty street was filling with the long shadows and light of early morning.

"Oh, I almost forgot. I met your boss—Zachariah? Serious dick. Then again, seems like all angels are dicks." Dean pursed his lips. "I mean, except you. Sometimes."

He lowered his hands to his sides. "By the way, this isn't a prayer. Even if—you know, with the hands and the...food. I'm still not a fan of the God Squad. This is just me having a conversation with you, man to angel. Um...yeah."

Dean looked up at the ceiling. His eyes darted back and forth. After a few seconds of nothing, he shrugged, picked up his knife and fork, and started in on his meal.

* * *

"Wake up," Sam was saying. Cold air invaded the front seat of the Impala. Dean opened one eye and glared at him.

"Close the fucking door," Dean grumbled.

"Are you up?"

Dean threw his head back against the upholstery. "Do I look like I'm asleep?"

"Good." Sam pushed Dean's legs to the ground, slid into the passenger side, and yanked the door shut. "How'd you sleep so late, anyway? I can barely get my head down when we crash in the car."

"Not being eight feet tall helps," Dean muttered. He checked his watch. "Don't like it? Think up some more cash flow for us. We can't afford to book a motel every night right now."

"Or, you could drink less."

Dean pressed his palm to his forehead. "Do you have to be a bitch this early in the morning?"

"Yeah, I'm being a bitch." Sam forced out a breath. "Unbelievable."

"Glad you're owning up to it."

Sam crossed his arms and looked out his window. Around the edge of the clearing, thick fog, lit intermittently by the glow of headlights on the interstate, hung from the boughs of the pine trees. A sleepy family of travelers emerged from the gloom and huddled past the brothers' parking space.

"I need coffee," Dean said. He sat up, sniffed, and started the car.

They pulled out of the rest stop with a squeal of the tires. It was Sunday, so the traffic on the highway was sparse and mellow. Dean turned on the radio and sought a station.

"You know I'm grouchy in the morning," Dean said, over the white noise.

"In the morning?"

Dean smiled. "Touché."

"You're, uh—" Sam glanced at the radio. "You're okay, though, right?"

"Okay?"

"Yeah. You've just been a little on edge since that whole...alternate reality thing."

Dean shrugged. He hovered over the faint scratch of a country song before moving on.

"I don't know. Maybe. It's just another example of angels being pricks, I guess."

"Pretty much." Sam rested his arm on the seat back and looked at Dean. "Have you, uh, heard from Cass since then?"

"Have I?"

"Yeah."

"No," Dean said, with as much nonchalance as he could muster. "Can't find jack on the radio."

"Because we're in rural West Virginia." Sam cocked his head. "Is that redundant?"

"The fog, the dead radio—it's like we're in Silent Hill." Dean pointed at the glove compartment. "Hand me Black Sabbath."

"Uh, I don't think so."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"It's seven in the morning. I'm not listening to that."

"Sammy, if I have to pull over, you're going to be hitchhiking the rest of the way."

"Yeah, sure. Anyway, the reason I asked about Cass is because you were saying his name." Sam cleared his throat. "In your sleep."

Dean breathed in sharply.

"For a while. Like, you wouldn't shut up."

"Bullshit."

"It's not, Dean."

Through the fog, a sign advertised a 7-11 and a local diner two exits away. Dean merged into the right lane with a quick jerk of the wheel; Sam steadied himself against the dashboard and gave him a sidelong glance.

"So, he isn't coming when you call?"

Dean glared at him. "What do you think?"

"Maybe something happened to him. That could be why his boss is on the board all of a sudden."

"Yeah, maybe something did happen to him, Sam." Dean slapped the back of his hand on his thigh dismissively. "But it's not like we can do anything about it. All we can do is keep working. Helping people. Cass will turn up when he turns up."

They drove in silence down the offramp, up the two-laned central artery of the town, and into the empty 7-11 parking lot. Dean pulled the keys out of the ignition and glanced at Sam.

"You coming in?"

Sam yawned and unbuckled his seat belt. "Yeah."

"I think we're only a couple hours away," Dean began, as they crossed the parking lot. "Once we get there, we should have time to ask around a little before lunch."

As the glass doors slid open and chimed, Sam chuckled.

"What?"

"I was just thinking: even if everything about us was fake, the angels could have let us keep Dean Smith's apartment." Sam picked up a banana and rotated it in his hand. "I'd take a metrosexual black leather couch over the back seat of the Impala any day."

"Okay, I got the message. We have to check into a motel when we get there so we can suit up, anyway." Dean filled a styrofoam cup with coffee. "Want me to make you one?"

"Yeah. Just don't fill it up too high."

"'Don't fill it up too high,'" Dean mimicked, high-pitched, under his breath.

"Seriously, though," Sam said, from the next aisle. "You ever wish we had a home to go back to?"

"Look, Sam, I'm not awake enough for some sort of—"

"I don't mean in a like, existential, 'you can't go home again' way." Sam placed a box of granola bars into his basket. "I'm talking about a roof over our heads. A dresser instead of a duffel bag. Real food for breakfast instead of—" He batted the back of his hand against a row of Pringles cans.

"I don't know. I mean, those things are annoying, I'll admit that." Dean peered at him. "Are _you_ feeling okay?"

Sam sighed. He walked to the counter; Dean followed him and showed the two coffees to the cashier.

"Dean, that whole Sandover case may have been bull, but it was kind of nice to just...go back home every night. And have a shower whenever I wanted. And not have to ride shotgun for ten hours a day." Sam picked up the bag of food and turned to the door. "Are you going to tell me to stop whining?"

Dean followed behind until the sidewalk's edge, then stopped and watched Sam walk towards the car. He had felt many of the same yearnings—resentments, really—for most of his life. Given their age difference and Sam's time at Stanford, he had probably longed for a familiar place to rest his head for longer than Sam had. And yet, Dean held that and countless other emotions in. He feared that the smallest crack might lead to Sam abandoning him again.

"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean said, once he arrived at the Impala. "We'll have our own place one day."

Sam peeled his banana and shrugged. "Whatever. It's not a big deal."

"Until then?" Dean handed him his coffee. "We hunt things."

* * *

Four days later, Dean was lying on top of the covers in a motel bed in Madison, Wisconsin. The heater on the wall above his head was stuck on its maximum temperature, so he'd shed everything but his jeans and black T-shirt. Even his feet were bare.

"I, um, I know I already said this." Dean looked up at the ceiling. His eyes darted between the water spots. "But...thank you for telling me how to save Sam. I knew I could count on you."

He stretched his neck from side to side, cracked his knuckles. "Actually, that's a lie. I didn't know that. In fact, I was pretty convinced you'd tell me to pound sand. You know, 'your orders.' But I was desperate."

Two voices, a man and a woman, floated by along the motel balcony. In front of Dean's door, the woman posed something as a question, to which the man laughed heartily. They continued on to the stairway, fading into the quiet of the spring night.

"Sam went down the street to pick up some burgers," Dean said. He dragged the backs of his fingers through the stubble beneath his chin. "He likes taking a walk after an eleven-hour drive. All I want to do is lie down and have a beer."

Dean continued to absentmindedly stroke his fingers along his neck. On the muted television on the opposite wall, a vintage Warner Bros. logo concluded the hour's programming.

"I'm worried about him, Cass. If you hadn't—I mean, what would've happened? With Lilith?" Dean turned to the nightstand between the beds and plucked another can from the six-pack. "Something's going on with him. I'm not sure what, but something."

Dean stood up and paced as he drank. Because of the malfunctioning heater, the beer was barely even cool anymore, which irritated him more and more with every step he took.

"Anyway, we're heading to Minnesota tomorrow. Got a call this morning from some joker claiming he's our dad's son." Dean licked his lips, squeezed the beer can. "Don't know who or what he is, but I'm sure as hell going to find out."

He stared down at Sam's bed as he finished the beer. Scenes from his childhood, mortifying and lurid and occasionally wondrous, cycled before his eyes like the measured clicking of a View-Master. Considering how rarely his father had been around, the number of memories featuring him to which Dean returned again and again was remarkable. He set his empty can down next to the others, sat on the edge of the mattress, and wondered to himself why that had never stood out to him before.

"You seemed different at Chuck's house and...the motel the other day," Dean said eventually, his voice barely louder than the heater. "And I'm _still_ waiting for you to explain what you meant by me being the one to stop it. Anytime. Really."

He forced his mouth to smile and peered up at the corner of the ceiling.

"I'm free tonight," he said, and made a goofy-enough face that even Castiel would get the joke. Until Sam got back with their dinner, Dean sat and watched and waited, picking up and dropping memories of his father that he hadn't touched in years.

* * *

It was a cloudy afternoon on the lake. Every previous day here had been bright and hot, so Dean found the change in the weather glaring. He had a fancy that, since this was all inside his head, he might be able to return the heavens to clear skies if he thought hard enough. He'd tried that for a while before realizing that he was wasting valuable fishing time.

He'd have to ask Cass the next time he saw him.

The change in light and temperature affected the fish, of course. Dean had gone through three different rods of nothing by now, and he was switching to his fourth, an electric-blue spinnerbait with a Colorado blade.

"Follow me now and you will not regret," Dean chanted, bobbing his head. "Leaving the life you led before we met."

He may not have been able to alter the atmospheric conditions of his dreams yet, but at least he could sing along to Black Sabbath here without Sam turning down the radio.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said. Dry leaves skirred off the dock in his wake, sending out minuscule ripples over the water's surface.

"Cass, hey." Dean glanced to his left. "Where've you been, man?"

"I've been busy."

"With?"

"Heaven," Castiel replied, his voice like lead.

"Alright." Dean rolled his eyes, looked down at his rod. "Sorry for asking. Nice to see you, too."

Dean turned his attention to his retrieve. He glided the lure along the lake, trying out different moves as best he could under the pressure of an audience. Castiel observed at his side, as still and silent as the trees that lined the shore.

"I think the weather's making them shy," Dean said. He chuckled self-consciously. "Maybe you could make it sunny again?"

"This is your dream, Dean. You can change what happens in it on your own."

"Yeah, I know." Dean turned to face him again. "But you could, you know, do it for me."

"You should try to do it yourself." Castiel was gazing at the far bank. "I might not always be around. I can't always be around."

"I know," Dean said, and wet his lips. "Cass, are you okay?"

A breeze drew currents and eddies on the lake, and Dean's line wavered. Castiel sighed quietly.

"I'm fighting a war, Dean. A war which Heaven is losing."

"Yeah, so you keep saying. And didn't you blab that I'm your secret weapon or something? I'm still waiting for you to explain that."

"I...can't."

"Or you won't."

"There is a time to every purpose under heaven," Castiel said. He turned to Dean abruptly. "I came here because I need you to ask less of me, Dean. I earned the ire of my superiors when I told you about the archangel. Once the war is over and I'm no longer needed, I'll be punished for my actions."

"Cass, I don't get it. Why would the angels want Sam to make a deal with Lilith?"

"It wasn't about that. It was about subverting the words of a prophet. You and I, we changed God's plan for the world."

"Yeah, well God's plan sucked." Dean tossed his rod onto the dock and crossed his arms.

"It was the first time I'd deviated from my orders for you," Castiel continued, barely registering a reaction. "The last time I was reprimanded—it was inappropriate, but at least it had nothing to do with the mission."

"The last time?" Dean frowned up at him. "What are you talking about?"

Castiel closed his eyes, pressed his lips together.

"You mean this? The dreams?"

"Do you remember the last time we saw each other? Before Chuck and Lilith?"

"When you flew off right after telling a guy hooked up to a breathing tube that the fate of the world was in his hands?" Dean said. "You should really work on your bedside manner, pal."

Castiel let out a short laugh. For the first time since he'd arrived, he met Dean's eyes.

"I've enjoyed our talks, Dean. Even if we never—well, I'm glad we met."

"Cass, you're starting to worry me. If I'm the one who got you in trouble—I mean, I owe you, man. Let me help."

"You can't, Dean. The more involved with you and Sam I get, the more difficult things become for me. And the more danger we're all in." Castiel stared down at the discarded fishing rod and bit his lip. "Just take care of yourself and your brother. If I don't come when you call...."

"Then what?"

"Then someone else will," Castiel finished.

A cold wind rolled down from the mountain, shaking the branches of the chestnut trees. Dean watched Castiel, hoping that his impassive visage would break with some hint of irony. Even to someone who had seen as much of the ugliness of the world as Dean had, what Castiel was resigning himself to seemed unbearably bleak and severe.

"Cass," Dean murmured. "Before you go."

"Tell me."

"When I talk to you—not praying, just, you know, talking. Like earlier tonight, in the motel room."

"I can hear you," Castiel said, answering the unasked question. He reached down and brushed one of the fallen chestnut leaves from Dean's hair. For once, Dean didn't care that he had read his mind.

"What about the other angels?"

Castiel smiled faintly as he preened through Dean's hair. "Only me."

Once the wind had quieted down, Dean swallowed, faced forward in his camping chair, and picked up his rod for another cast. He knew what was coming.

"You son of a bitch," he said, just as Castiel's touch disappeared with the rest of him. "I better see you again."


	14. American Girl

It had been several months since Castiel's last trip to the seabird sanctuary off the coast of Maui. Given all that had transpired since his most recent visit, it was fair to say that he had failed in his erstwhile goal of pushing Dean from his mind. All those hours of meditation in the sand had come to nought.

Being back here at sunset—ambling around on the beach with a bucket of fern-green paint as the nesting birds watched skeptically, staining the ground upon which he had tried so diligently to remain loyal to Heaven without question—felt like the end of a beginning.

"This will have to do," Castiel said, as he peered into the shadows of the empty paint bucket. He set it carefully down in the sand, near the center of the warding circle, and waited for the others to arrive. He passed the time by watching the firmament, waiting for the exact moment that the first star marked the transition from twilight to dusk.

Anna was the first to show. She winced almost imperceptibly when she landed, instead surveying the Enochian with what seemed like approval.

"If it were anyone else, I'd think they'd laid a trap for me."

"The warding is necessary," Castiel said. In spite of everything, he regarded Anna warily. "We'll have to put up with the discomfort."

"Pushing through discomfort is what angels are best at," Anna said. "Oh, don't tilt your head at me. I dealt with a lot of Heaven's crap, for a long time, before I became human. Stuff I didn't even tell you about."

"I didn't mean—" Castiel furrowed his brow at Anna's impish grin. "I'm glad you came."

"I'm your older sister. I'll always be there for you."

Castiel averted his eyes. "You don't have to do that. I can take care of myself."

"That isn't the point, Castiel."

He looked past her at the ocean and mulled over what he should say next. It would be inaccurate to say that he didn't feel a similar loyalty to her, but the way she expressed the sentiment was full-throated and visceral and inflected with humanity. In spite of the restoration of her grace, in spite of the hundreds of millions of years they'd spent together, relating to Anna now felt alien in a way that Castiel couldn't quite put his finger on.

Before he could come up with a response, Balthazar and Samandriel joined them within the warding circle.

"Ugh," Samandriel groaned. "Woozy."

"Castiel, darling?" Balthazar put his hands on his hips. "What's the meaning of this?"

"Wait." Samandriel stepped back, nearly stumbling over the paint can. "Why is _she_ here?"

"It's nice to see you, too."

"Ah, Anna," Balthazar said. "You're looking magically seditious, my dear."

"Cute." She turned to Castiel. "Please tell me you have more angels than just these two coming."

"No, everyone's here. I thought I would limit our group to as few as possible for the sake of secrecy."

"'Secrecy?'" Samandriel looked up at the clouds. "Oh, brother. What are you getting us into, Castiel?"

Castiel sighed and began a circuit along the inner rim of the Enochian letters. "Thank you all for coming. I apologize for the warding; it's a necessary precaution. It's best that the other angels don't know that we're meeting."

"Meeting with _her_ , you mean?" Balthazar reached out, stopped Castiel as he passed. "Have you any idea how much trouble we'll be in if Zachariah finds out that we've been consorting with a traitor to Heaven?"

"It's nice to see Naomi's indoctrination program is as effective as ever," Anna said.

Samandriel squinted at her. "Who?"

"Never mind."

"I'm aware of the risks," Castiel resumed. "But I didn't see any other choice. I'm concerned about the war; about the state of affairs in Heaven. Anna was a high-ranking angel for eons and the only one I thought I could trust with my concerns. In truth, that's largely because Heaven has fully rejected her."

"I don't know what I could tell you that you can't figure out for yourself," Anna said. "You've been in my old job for decades."

"That's hardly even time enough for him to get his feet wet," Balthazar said. "You've been human for too long, my dear. It's dinged your internal clock just a tad."

"Please." Castiel stopped walking and turned to the group. "Just let me finish. We don't have much time."

Anna uncrossed her arms and nodded.

"We've been at war since we raised Dean Winchester up from hell eight months ago. It was never going to be easy or without cost. But the tactical decisions of our superiors have been poorly suited to the battlefield and slow to adapt to the enemy. Seal after seal has fallen at an alarming rate. Conspiracies have flourished unchecked within our ranks. If the Winchesters hadn't hoodwinked me into Anna regaining her grace, she would not have been able to save me from a follower of Lucifer who had killed seven of our kind."

The windward breeze uplifted grains of sand into the spaces between Castiel's fingers. He glanced at the warding and cleared his throat.

"I suspect that the plot to raise Lucifer extended beyond Uriel. I'm confiding in you because you're friends whom I trust with my life. I want each of you to watch out for yourselves, and I ask that you tell me if you find evidence of any of our brethren working against Heaven."

Having finished, Castiel breathed in deeply and waited for the others to respond. He had prepared himself for a variety of reactions, but Anna's laughter was not one of them.

"Castiel, you've always been too trusting. That's one of the things I worried about. When I made the decision to fall, I mean."

"I...don't understand."

"Heaven has been corrupt since it set in for the angels that God wasn't coming back anytime soon. The higher rungs are always nursing their grudges and vendettas against one another. Trying to undermine each other's positions; setting themselves up to look the best when Dad gets home. It's been a long time since we were benevolent messengers of the Good News."

Balthazar snorted. "Well, of course you'd say that."

"Just—stop being a sarcastic asshole for a few minutes," Anna said. "We don't have the time."

"We can hear her out," Samandriel said, with a touch to Balthazar's forearm.

"Infighting is one thing, Anna," Castiel said. "We're all accustomed to that by now. I'm talking about the active betrayal of Heaven's interests."

"The mistake you're making is assuming that Heaven is interested in preventing Lucifer's rising," Anna said, with a cold stoicism that deadened the sting of what she was saying.

"What?" Samandriel said.

"I hope you have evidence to back up what you're implying," Balthazar said. "Do you realize how mad it sounds?"

"I wish I were crazy. I honestly do sometimes." Anna held her hair against the side of her head as the wind gusted again. "Things were a lot simpler when I was crazy."

Castiel resumed his pacing. "Balthazar's right. We need proof to believe that kind of accusation. Otherwise, we're jumping to conclusions when the stakes couldn't be higher."

"The only proof you need is logic. In Lucifer's absence, the ruler of Hell is Lilith, the first demon. Sixty-five seals need to be shattered before her demise, which is the immutable sixty-sixth seal. Any disruption of that sequence thwarts the entire process. That was the kill switch God built into the entire convoluted system."

"But we're losing the contest over the seals," Samandriel said. "That's the entire point."

"No, it's beside the point. The global war you've all been fighting against the armies of Hell is kabuki. It's all theater."

"Darling, I think your tinfoil hat might be on a little too tight." Balthazar turned to Castiel. "Cassie, I don't think this—"

"Be silent," Castiel ordered. He turned to Anna. "What do you mean, 'all theater?'"

"There's no need for a war, Castiel. That's what I mean. No need for angels or humans to die. Or demons, even. It's all happening because the leadership of Heaven wants it to happen."

Samandriel frowned. "Why would they _want_ it to happen?"

"I couldn't tell you," Anna replied. "It might have something to do with their jockeying for position. Or maybe they're throwing a tantrum, thinking they can force Dad to come back by freeing Lucifer. In the end, it doesn't matter why. All that matters is that Michael and Raphael are stronger than every demon ever created, including the first one. Either of them could have ended Lilith the instant she escaped from the Hell Gate, or any point thereafter. But they haven't." Anna glanced between the three of them. "Seriously, none of you ever stopped to think about this?"

"We've been fighting a _war_ , Anna," Castiel said. "Every day; every hour, nearly. A good soldier carries out his orders to the best of his abilities. He doesn't sit around and ponder why his superiors came up with them."

"Maybe he should," Anna said simply.

"Uh, sorry," Balthazar said, raising a timid finger. "But if what you're saying is true, that means that Michael himself is in on a plot to hasten the end of the world? Am I correct when I say that's the summary of your entire speech just now?"

Anna crossed her arms. "Yes."

"Oh." Balthazar sat down in the sand and gulped. "Lovely. I...just need a moment."

"Samandriel?" Anna said. "Are you okay? You've been quiet."

"I'm not sure. This is—this is way more than I thought I was getting into when I came here."

Anna turned to Castiel with a look of genuine confusion. "I can't be the only one who's worked this out. It's not like I have special powers of perception."

"I don't know," Castiel said. "You're the only angel who has also been a human. You've been able to think for yourself, free from Heaven's influence. Maybe that freedom helped you to see something that was in front of the rest of us all along, but which we were blind to."

"Does that mean—" Anna took a step towards Castiel and touched the sleeve of his trench coat. "You believe me?"

Castiel glanced at Balthazar and Samandriel, who were watching for his reaction. "As much as it pains me, I can't deny anything you've said."

"Castiel," Samandriel murmured.

"Michael," Balthazar said, as he stared out at the ocean. "He wouldn't. He couldn't. Conspiring with the first of demons?"

"All he has to do for her plan to succeed is not kill her. Raphael would never go against Michael, and Gabriel is...wherever he is." Anna squatted down beside Balthazar and patted his shoulder. "It's unlikely that Michael and Lilith communicate with each other."

"Because that makes it better," Balthazar mumbled. He shook her off. "I don't need comforting."

"Of course." Anna clenched her jaw and looked up at the waning moon. "I'll be going, then."

"Wait," Castiel said. "Don't leave yet."

"We should all be going, actually." Samandriel pointed to the warding in the sand, which was by now riven by innumerable windblown fissures.

"The two of you, go," Castiel said. "Be careful. I'll be in contact again soon."

"Sure," Balthazar agreed. "Unless, of course, this was all a bad dream from which I'll awake at any moment. I'll hold out hope for that."

Castiel grimaced. "You know that we don't sleep, Balthazar."

"I know," he said, and kissed Castiel's cheek before flying away.

"I'll...let you know if I hear anything unusual from the other angels," Samandriel said. "Like I told you, there's not much else I do all day but listen to them."

"Only if it's safe," Castiel said. "Goodbye, Samandriel."

When it was just the two of them within the fraying ring of green, Anna looked at Castiel expectantly. "Aren't you going as well?"

"Soon enough."

"And you're not worried about the kill order on me? About what happens if they find out we met without one of us smiting the other?"

Castiel sighed. "If everything you've said is right, that's fairly low on the list of things I have to worry about."

"Yeah." Anna chuckled and leaned into Castiel's arm. "The job's hard enough without your bosses trying to bring about the apocalypse."

"It is," Castiel agreed. "The more time that passes, the less I blame you for falling."

"That's something," she said.

Castiel watched the waves as they came to shore, leaving behind cracked shells and deflated jellyfish. Beneath the thin sliver of moonlight, the seafoam on the shore glowed faintly luminescent in the near-total darkness.

"Do you ever miss Heaven?"

"Not a bit," she said, without hesitation. "I miss you, though. Sometimes."

"I appreciate that."

"Do you ever—"

"Sometimes. I...just wish things could be different."

Anna shrugged. "Who says they can't be?"

As he scanned the last vestiges of the warding, Castiel considered this. His reflex was to answer, with utter certainty, "God," but he wasn't sure of that conviction any longer. Nothing was as certain as it had seemed eight months before.

"I'm curious," Castiel said. "I'm not saying that I fully agree with what you did. Or even that I understand it, really. But...how did you know that you were doing the right thing back then? When you rebelled against Heaven?"

"I'm surprised, Castiel. I didn't think you'd be interested in hearing my reasons."

"Humor me."

"Okay. I didn't think about it in terms of right and wrong. Not in the way I know you think about those concepts. I just had this feeling that there was more to my existence than following orders. Being an unfeeling drone with an absent father, siblings who acted more like acquaintances...I don't know. I knew there had to be more."

"But how could you have known that when you didn't know what 'more' meant?"

"From watching humans, obviously." Anna shook the sand out of one of her shoes and laughed. "My dad—my human dad—used to listen to this one song in the car all the time. 'American Girl.' He'd sing it to me sometimes when he dropped me off at school."

"That's a nice memory."

"It was about a girl who knew there was more out there for her. Who wanted to see the world, no matter what it took. As I got older, I sort of thought the lyrics spoke to me." Anna took a deep breath and gazed out at the sea. "I guess I was right about that."

"I see," Castiel said. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For telling me that. It must still pain you to talk about your parents."

"Yeah," Anna said, with an expression of pleased surprise. "It does. But it also feels nice, remembering them. Sharing their memory with someone else."

Castiel drew himself up and cleared his throat. He was still unsure of his disposition towards Heaven, but one thing had at once become clear to him.

"I have to go. I need to warn Dean."

"What?"

"About all of it: the corruption in Heaven, Lilith, Michael. I thought we had raised Dean as a last resort. I never felt good about the possibility of Michael inhabiting him, but I had to think about the bigger picture." Castiel hung his head as the last specks of green dispersed over the shore or took to the wind. "Now that I know it was all a lie, I can't let anything happen to him."

"No," Anna said firmly.

"No?"

"Dean can't do anything. He can't protect himself from the angels. He certainly can't protect himself from Michael. Telling him will just put him and Sam in danger."

"I don't know, Anna."

"And if you tell Dean, you'll have disobeyed Heaven." She gestured at the sand around them. "Again. You'll be imprisoned. Tortured, more than likely."

Castiel shook his head. Anna always thought through the second- and third-order consequences of any action; it was one of the qualities that had made her an exceptional leader. It was also one of the traits that made her an, at times, annoying sibling.

"Please, Castiel. I don't want to see you get hurt."

"That's kind of you," Castiel said. "You're right, anyway. I need to do more digging in Heaven before I take any rash action."

"This all feels so familiar." Anna smiled up at the constellations and raised her wings. "It's almost like the last twenty years never happened."

"Almost," Castiel said, as she took to the skies. "Goodbye, Anna."

* * *

Returning to Heaven seemed imprudent, at least until Castiel had had time to think through his next moves. If Michael and Raphael intended for Lucifer to be freed by Lilith, it would be impossible to oppose them openly and live. At the same time, it was difficult to know which angels had already been turned; he still wasn't even sure whether involving Balthazar and Samandriel had been a good decision. Not knowing whom he could trust made covert action nearly as unworkable as public denunciation.

God, of course, was the first source of aid Castiel thought of, as unlikely as that was. Not only did he not know how to contact God, but Michael surely did. Since God knew all, surely he knew of Michael's plan; and since he hadn't intervened, that likely meant that he condoned it. Castiel shuddered at that thought and pushed further thoughts of his father from his mind. He would have to face this dilemma without him. At least he was used to that by now.

A familiar trading of voices floated up from the sidewalk, interrupting Castiel's increasingly pessimistic ruminations. He stepped closer to the edge of the grocery store's roof and watched Dean and Sam saunter across the parking lot, plastic bags dangling from their hands.

"You okay, man?" Dean was saying. "You've been a little...twitchy all day. And you keep touching your face."

"What? No, I'm fine."

"It's alright if those ghouls shook you up, you know. They're disgusting sons of—"

"They didn't."

"Okay. Whatever you say."

"I'm just tired. Let's head back to Bobby's already." Sam got into the car and slammed the passenger door behind him. Dean furrowed his brow and looked around the strip mall for a few seconds before opening his door.

Despite what Anna had said, Castiel still wanted to tell Dean about the day's revelations. He had been hiding the true purpose of Dean's resurrection from him for all this time because he'd believed that it was the only way to guarantee the safety of the world. Now that he knew that it had all been lies, each additional second of the deception filled him with revulsion. After everything he had already been through, Dean didn't deserve this.

The Impala pulled out onto the South Dakota state highway; Castiel watched it until it disappeared into the ash-grey thunderclouds on the horizon. He had an hour before he had to supervise a training exercise at a warehouse two states away, which he devoted to imagining his next conversation with Dean. Occasionally, his scenarios veered into fantasies in which he confessed everything he knew and swore to Dean that he would protect him. The time rushed by like the wind over the plains, leaving him feeling breathless.

The exercise, a fortnightly combat and tactical simulation for newly envesseled angels, was a routine one. Castiel had attended a good number of them since the previous autumn. Most of the actual instruction was conducted by specialists, but the presence of a flight captain was required for bureaucratic reasons. Since he had few actual duties to discharge, he often used the several hours at these sessions to listen to other angels telepathically or contemplate recent events in the field. Neither activity was very relaxing under the circumstances.

"Castiel," called a familiar voice.

"Hester," Castiel replied, opening his eyes. The training appeared to already be over: most of the angels had flown off, leaving behind only a few at the doors of the abandoned warehouse.

"I hope that I didn't interrupt your thoughts."

"No," he said. "Why are you here? I didn't call you back from France."

" _You_ didn't." Hester pressed her lips together, put her hands on her hips, and watched the center of the makeshift arena.

The angels around the perimeter of the building began painting words of light on the sheet-metal walls. By the second letter, Castiel realized that they were writing a spell of grounding, which meant that he had roughly thirty seconds to figure out what to do next.

"I'm sorry, Castiel. This is an intervention."

The words had barely left her mouth before Castiel was in Dean's dream, handing him the directions to the warehouse. The effort, combined with the vitiation of the half-completed grounding sigils, weakened his hold over Jimmy's consciousness. That was a boon, however. Castiel needed to communicate with him in the few seconds they had left.

"Jimmy," Castiel called. "Wake up."

_Castiel? I feel strange. Are we in Heaven?_

"No," Castiel said. "We're in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Eau Claire, Wisconsin."

_So, the opposite of Heaven._

"Listen to me. I'm being raptured—recalled forcibly to Heaven. You'll be left unharmed, but abandoned here. I've asked Dean to come for you. He'll keep you safe."

_What? Recalled? Why?_

"For your own protection, I'm also going to erase most of your memories of the past eight months. I'll leave some knowledge of demons that you can use to defend yourself."

_Castiel! Wait—_

"It's time, Castiel," Hester murmured. Electricity, soft and white like newly-fallen snow, arced from the walls as the last sigil was completed.

"Whatever you've been told," Castiel said, as Jimmy fell dormant again. "Whatever this is—I can explain my actions. They've all been in service to Heaven."

"Zachariah says you're too far gone for further talk," Hester said sadly. "Once he arrives, you'll be returned home and...made better."

Castiel's eyes darted around the warehouse. Towering shelves of decaying automobile parts stood in tight formation, surrounding his and Hester's position at the center of the floor. On the back wall was an alcove where the light from the sigils appeared the weakest.

"We all want you to get better." Hester patted the back of Castiel's hand. "We don't blame you, Castiel. It's a sickness. Your obsession with Dean is turning you away from the righteous path. The only path."

"This is not righteous," Castiel growled, pulling away from her.

Castiel leapt backward, motioning his free hand towards the shelves on the fadeaway. The breach between him and the rest of the angels filled with clanging debris. Castiel sprinted to the wall and cut his palm with his blade.

_Castiel?_

"I promised to keep you and your family safe," Castiel said, as he drew the encompassing circle of a banishing sigil. "Dean may have to take up that promise in my stead for a while. But, knowing him, he wouldn't have it any other way."

"Castiel!"

Castiel hovered his hand over the wall and looked over his shoulder. Zachariah stood several yards away, wreathed by the twisted metal and smoking wreckage of the shelves and car engines.

"Stand down, Castiel."

"Zachariah. Why am I being raptured?"

"You have to ask?"

"If I'm being forcibly detained, I'm entitled to know why. That's the policy."

"All of a sudden, you give a fig about policy?" Zachariah scoffed. "Fine. Your loyalty to Dean Winchester has impaired your judgment to such a degree that you've become a danger to Heaven's plans. You're irrational and erratic. We can't have that."

"I last saw Dean almost a week ago. Why now?"

"Oh, no. This goes much deeper than your little Hero and Leander routine with that ape."

"What?"

"I'll bring the book to your cell. Consider all the chances I've given you, Castiel. If I were all that bothered by your...relationship with Dean, I would have intervened a long time ago. But now—now, you've crossed the line from a misguided dalliance to outright rebellion."

"Ah. So, you were watching earlier. You know."

"You're really not cut out for subterfuge, Castiel."

Castiel raised his hand to the wall again. "I'm guessing that you've known about Michael's plan all along?"

"Touch that sigil, Castiel, and you sign not only your own death warrant, but your vessel's as well."

"Good angels have died for _nothing_ , Zachariah!"

"Touch that sigil, and I'll be sure to make the Winchesters' lives a living hell until the day they can finally be killed off. And I have a lot of ideas on how to do that." Zachariah took a step forward. "I won't ask you again."

Castiel released all of the air in his lungs. He dropped his hand to his side.

"Good." Zachariah cracked the sigil into pieces with a blast of energy, then walked up to Castiel. "Maybe you're not a complete write-off."

"I don't care if this is Michael's plan. Our father would never want this for the world."

"See, you only say that because your God right now is Dean Winchester." Zachariah adjusted Castiel's lapels and patted his shoulder. "Mr. 'Let's Save Every Last Worthless Human Being on Planet Earth.'"

"Our job is to take care of God's creations. How can human lives be worthless?"

"Your job is to obey your orders. Nothing more and nothing less." Zachariah placed one hand on Castiel's forehead; he slammed the other one into the wall, drawing power from the grounding sigils. "Luckily, you've always been good at that. You just need a bit of a tune-up, and you'll be good as new."

With that, the energy in the room gathered within Castiel's body. His howls of pain shook the walls and burst the lights overhead, plunging the cavernous warehouse into darkness. Jimmy crumpled to the ground as the host of angels spiraled up to Heaven.


	15. Bad Moon Rising

In the half an hour since they'd arrived at the derelict industrial lot, rainclouds the color of wet asphalt had rolled in from the west, covering the entire sky. The afternoon sun, a dim, pale-yellow orb, was only just visible between the stands of aspen and paper birch that lined both sides of the empty road. Dean leaned against the side of the warehouse, examining the strange, sickly light on his hands as he prayed.

"Cass?"

His eyes darted to Jimmy's indistinct form in the car's back seat, about twenty feet away. It had taken Dean several minutes to utter that one word, and he still felt as self-conscious at this distance as if he had fallen to his knees and sent up a prayer to Castiel right in front of him.

"Cass, I don't know what's going on with you. If you're even hearing this. But I figured I'd try, at least." He cleared his throat, scratched his cheek. "I have to try."

Dean exhaled a long, opaque breath and glanced through the ajar door of the warehouse. He could hear Sam's footsteps, hear him shifting wrecked metal and burnt plastic. He was still some distance off.

"Me and Sam came here, like you asked. We—we found your vessel. Jimmy." Dean ran his tongue over his lips. "I don't know what you want me to do next. Did we come too late? Are you—I don't know, are you gone forever?"

He pushed himself away from the wall, began pacing in the gravel driveway.

"You know, this would all be a hell of a lot easier for me if you knew how to give a straight answer. All your damn riddles? Fat lot of good they did you."

Dean stopped a few feet behind the Impala and stared at the back of Jimmy's head. A ball of dread was coalescing at the base of his throat, and he gulped it down angrily.

"So, this is it, huh? I guess when I saw you last week by the lake—that was goodbye, wasn't it?" He crossed his arms, shook his head. "Couldn't even level with me, after everything. You really are a son of a bitch."

The warehouse door opened with a scrape and clatter that echoed in the trees. Dean looked down at his boots and blinked.

"Hey," Sam said.

"Find anything?"

"Nothing. Figures that angels would be better at cleaning up after themselves than demons." Sam peered into the back seat. "How's he doing?"

"I don't know. He's just been sitting there."

"You haven't tried to talk to him?"

"No. I was, uh, waiting for you."

"Waiting for me?"

"Yeah." Dean shrugged as he walked to the driver side. "It's a weird situation. I didn't know what to say."

Sam furrowed his brow. "Dean, we deal with weird situations all the time."

"Never mind. Just get in."

Dean slammed his door, started the car, and pushed the thermostat to its maximum. He caught Jimmy's eyes in the rear-view mirror as he backed onto the road, but quickly looked away.

"Dean and I," Sam said, after they had been driving between the trees for a few minutes. "We'll, uh, take you back to our motel for now. Hopefully, we can figure out what's going on before too long."

"Okay, I guess," Jimmy murmured.

"How are you feeling?" Sam said.

"Don't know. Dazed. Tired. Hungry. So hungry." Jimmy sat forward in the seat. "Can we pick up something to eat?"

"There's a Hardee's up the road from the motel." Dean turned to Sam. "I scoped it out when we got here."

"Of course you did."

"Oh, God. Hardee's sounds perfect. I feel like I haven't had a burger in almost a year. Probably haven't, come to think of it."

"We'll get you some grub." Dean nodded to Jimmy in the mirror. "You just focus on remembering what happened back there."

"I'm trying."

"Well, try harder. We're kind of in the middle of the apocalypse here."

"Come on, Dean. Take it easy on the guy."

"I am taking it easy." Dean slowed the car at a stop sign and glanced over his shoulder. "But the sooner we figure out what's going on, the sooner we know what to do next. I mean, assumptions are pretty much all we have to go on right now. Maybe Cass just moved onwards and upwards."

Sam snorted. "So, what, the angels who trashed that warehouse were throwing him a retirement party?"

"Look, I don't know, Sam. That's what we need to figure out."

The car was silent the rest of the way into town. At the Hardee's drive-thru, Jimmy ordered two double cheeseburgers, two large french fries, and a large Coke from the back seat window. Dean added a mushroom and Swiss burger and batted away Jimmy's wallet when he tried to hand it to him.

"Then at least—" Jimmy dangled a twenty-dollar bill over the front seat. "Please, take it. You guys are already doing a lot for me."

Dean shrugged. "It's not like Cass was using it."

"Fine," Sam said, as he accepted the money.

"You sure you don't want anything?" Dean said, as he edged the car forward. "They have...salads. Even a veggie burger, I think."

"I told you, I'm not hungry."

"Well, what about later tonight? You sure you're not sick? You've been pretty—"

"I'm not sick, Dean." Sam's nostrils flared as he turned down the heat. "And stop being so fussy; it's weird."

"Oh, alright." Dean pulled up to the drive-thru window and dropped the greasy paper bags onto Sam's lap. "Sue me for giving a crap."

Sam bit his lip and turned away from Dean for the rest of the way to the motel. Once they pulled into the parking space in front of their room, he handed the food to Jimmy, walked to the edge of the lot, and faced the intermittent traffic of the highway with his hands clasped behind his neck.

"Is he okay?" Jimmy said.

"Who knows," Dean said. "It's getting harder and harder to tell these days."

He unlocked the door for Jimmy, held it open for him, and watched Sam for a while longer. Before too long, Sam loped back to them, smiled at Dean as he ducked under his arm, and greeted Jimmy at the table with uncommon brio.

To Dean, that was the surest indication yet that something was wrong with him.

* * *

Jimmy crumpled up the last of his food wrappers and tossed them into the trash can next to the television set. On the other side of the wall, Sam turned on the shower.

"Oh boy," Jimmy said, patting his midsection. "Actually, I think I might be cramping."

"Well, what did I tell you?" Dean said.

"Mind if I lie down?"

"Uh." Dean glanced over his shoulder at the bathroom door. "Sam's bed is free. I guess it's your bed now, though, since—"

Jimmy's chair scraped against the linoleum. "Since the two of you are taking turns on guard duty."

"Hey, that was his idea. Take it up with him once he gets out of the shower." Dean rubbed the inside of his thigh. "You might be waiting for a while, though. I don't know, I think it's the hair."

"Oh, God." Jimmy let out a slow, labored breath as he fell back into Sam's pillows. "Word of advice: if you ever stop eating for eight months, try to ease your body back into it."

"Are you—you're not going to go all co-ed during orientation week, are you?"

Jimmy squinted at him. "What?"

"If you have to hurl, do it in the bushes outside."

"I don't think I'm going to throw up." Jimmy pressed his palm to his forehead. "My body needs the calories too badly."

"Okay." Dean picked up his beer and walked to the foot of his bed. He looked up at the corner of the ceiling for a few seconds before sitting.

"You thinking he'll come back?" Jimmy said.

Dean shrugged. "You tell me."

"I wish I could, Dean. It's like...I don't know. Like every coherent memory since the moment I said 'yes' to him got wiped out. There are places where I can tell there should be something more. I just don't know what that something is."

"Start with what you _can_ remember, then. Maybe that'll unlock something."

Jimmy screwed his eyes shut. Dean sipped his beer as he watched him.

"Anything?"

"I remember fighting demons. What they look like; what they smell like."

"Sulfur?"

"Sort of. It's...hard to explain. Angels don't see or smell or hear things the way we do. But yeah, some of the odor demons emit is sulfur."

"Okay," Dean said. "What else?"

"I don't know." Jimmy rubbed his eyes. "It's just lots and lots of demons. Different kinds of demons; their strengths and weaknesses."

Dean tapped his foot impatiently. "I don't think we're looking for demons. Sam and I are pretty sure that other angels took Cass."

"Yeah, but—wait. What if there's a reason I can remember fighting demons? Maybe there's a clue somewhere in that."

"A clue?"

"There must be a reason I remember how to fight demons and not much else."

Dean sighed and walked to his nightstand. He picked up the motel stationery and a white plastic pen and dropped them onto Jimmy's chest. Jimmy winced.

"Try writing down what you remember," Dean said.

"A lot of it is images," Jimmy said. He sat up and uncapped the pen. "Images through the eyes of a celestial being. It's hard to express them in words."

"Then draw," Dean said flatly. He tipped the rest of the beer down his throat.

Jimmy nodded and began scrawling on the pad. Dean retrieved another beer from the table by the door.

"Want one?"

"I better not," Jimmy said. "I'm barely keeping down what I've already got."

Dean began to pace as he drank. Every once in a while, he would stop, lean into the partition, and watch the movements of Jimmy's hand over the page. They were uncertain, yet circumspect and graceful in the manner one would expect of a person who worked at a desk, filling out paperwork for a living. No matter how many demons and angels he encountered, Dean didn't think that he'd ever get over how the same body could move so differently when inhabited by another mind.

The opening of the bathroom door interrupted Dean's thoughts. Sam glanced at Jimmy before aiming a quizzical expression at Dean.

"He's drawing," Dean explained.

"Oh. Yeah, why not?"

Dean reached for another bottle and held it out to Sam.

"Not right now," Sam said, patting his damp hair with his towel. "I'm going out for a little while."

"Going out?"

"Going to get something to eat. There's a local food co-op a few blocks away."

"Alright. Well, don't take too long. We might need you. If Jimmy figures out what happened to Cass, I mean."

Sam snatched his jacket from the side of his bed and picked up one of the motel keys from the round table. "I'll be quick."

After Sam had left the room, Dean made his way to Jimmy's side. He bent down to scrutinize the notepad.

"You got anything yet?"

"Still just demons," Jimmy responded glumly.

Dean craned his neck forward, examined a quadrant of leafy squiggles and vertical lines at the bottom-right of the page.

"What's that?" he said, pointing with the neck of his bottle.

"That? I'm not sure. It's a place, I think? I've seen it at some point, but I don't know where."

"Describe it," Dean said, after a second's hesitation.

"It's a forest," Jimmy said. "I'm pretty sure. And there's a river—or a lake? Maybe both. And a trail leading down from some mountains."

"And is there, uh, a dock on this lake? A pier?"

Jimmy closed his eyes. "Yeah. I think so. And there's a ridge, then a valley." He looked up at Dean. "Wait, you know where this is?"

"I'd hope so."

"Well, where is it?"

"You let me worry about that." Dean swigged his beer and dropped his hands between his knees again. "What other places do you remember?"

"I—I don't know. That's kind of broad."

"A restaurant?" Dean said. "The corner table of a diner? Early morning?"

"Um, yeah." Jimmy rolled onto his side and gazed up at Dean. "Now that you mention it, that sounds like a place we've been. Me—me and Cass, I mean. Were you there, too?"

Dean forced out a nervous laugh. "Why would _I_ have been there?"

"Well, you're the one who brought it up."

"Yeah, maybe." Dean drained his bottle and set it down on the carpet. "This sparking anything useful yet? Anything...non-demonic?"

Jimmy flicked through the notepad. "Sorry, Dean."

"Don't apologize." Dean patted his shoulder. "It's not your fault. None of this is. Just...keep thinking."

"Okay." Jimmy's eyes followed Dean's hand as he returned it to his thigh. "Wait."

"What?"

"I remember that. Or something like it."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Alright. You're going to have to give me a little more than that, man."

"I remember Castiel feeling happy when he touched you like that," Jimmy said. He nodded at Dean's thigh.

"Whoa." Dean closed his legs, locked his arms around his chest. "I don't know at what point you got your wires crossed, dude, but you—Cass—neither of you have ever touched me...there."

"Sorry; I—I didn't mean that. I mean when _his_ hand touched _your_ shoulder. Like you just did to me."

"Oh."

"Only the left shoulder, though, now that I think about it. No idea why. Do you know?"

"My left shoulder?" Dean cleared his throat; his cheeks were burning. "What exactly does this have to do with the angel cage fight we found you at?"

"How would I know? You told me to focus on things I can remember that aren't demons. That's what I'm doing."

"Yeah." Dean pinched his brow. "Yeah, you're right. My...left shoulder is where he touched me in Hell. He pieced me back together and pulled me out. Even left a burn there—a handprint. It's mostly healed now."

"Huh. That isn't ringing any bells."

"It wouldn't," Dean said. "He raised me before he met you. Before he had a meatsuit. I remember him trying to 'talk' to me a couple times in the days after he, uh, brought me back. His voice blew out the windows and shook the ground." Dean rubbed his shoulder and smiled faintly.

"That must be why he asked me to be his vessel," Jimmy said, as he fiddled with the tip of his tie. "So he could interact with you."

Dean threw him a skeptical look. "I'm sure talking to me wasn't the only reason."

"Not the only reason," Jimmy agreed. "But there was something about you. Your face, your soul: they were at the front of his mind when he entered me. My first memory of Castiel inside me was of him thinking about you. No matter what, I'd never forget that moment."

"Oh," Dean said softly. His mouth was dry, so he swallowed down nothing. He directed a panicked look at the table, upon which remained two of the six bottles. His body felt glued to the bed; his legs felt welded to the carpet.

"Do you think—" Jimmy sat up. "I mean, what if Castiel's disappearance has something to do with you?"

"With me?"

"It's the only lead we have right now, isn'it it? Aside from how to fight demons, the only memories of his I can access are ones having to do with you."

"How could it have anything to do with me? I was asleep two states away when it happened."

"I don't know. It's just a possibility."

"Keep thinking," Dean said. With an effort that strained his practiced nonchalance, he pushed himself upright and strode to the other side of the room, dropping his bottle into the empty bin beside his bed along the way. The hollow clack reverberated against the room's bare walls, punctuating Dean's command with inadvertent severity.

"How long are the two of you going to keep me here?" Jimmy said from behind him, once Dean had twisted open the penultimate bottle and raised it to his lips.

"Ask my brother," Dean said, without turning around.

"I'm asking you."

"It's for your own good." Dean returned to the foot of his bed and sat facing Jimmy. "Just trust me on this, alright?"

"Why should I? Cass said I should; you say I should. But I barely know who you—"

"Because I know firsthand how demons destroy families," Dean interrupted. "How they ruin lives. How, even if you're one of the survivors, you never stop looking over your shoulder. How you're never free, and how nothing ever goes back to normal." He shut his eyes as he drank; he wiped the corner of his mouth with the loose sleeve of his flannel shirt.

"I'm sorry," Jimmy said, after a while.

Dean took in a deep breath. "What about a white sand beach?"

"Huh?"

"The waves on the Pacific Ocean. Smaller islands off the coast. Somewhere in Hawaii." Dean opened his eyes. "That bringing up anything?"

"Oh." Jimmy tilted his head to the side. After a few seconds, he stared at Dean's lips and raised his eyebrows, seemingly transfixed. Dean shifted uncomfortably and brought the nearly-empty bottle to his mouth, hoping he could hide behind it.

"Not...really," Jimmy finally said.

"Damn," Dean said with relief.

"I'll—I'll keep thinking," Jimmy said. He turned away from Dean and hunched over the notepad.

"You do that."

Dean wrinkled his nose, feeling the irritating tingle in his sinuses that often came when he was on the cusp of a sudden insight. It was obvious that Jimmy had lied to him when, out of nowhere, an erotic charge had run down the width of the motel room, connecting their eyes across the gulf between their beds. There was no misinterpreting that look.

Jimmy had remembered something; Dean was sure of that. Maybe he was a liar and a coward for not admitting it.

Maybe Dean was the same for being glad that he hadn't.

* * *

"I just don't get why he did it," Sam said, after they had been driving in the hushed early-morning gloom for almost an hour.

"What's there to not get? He wanted to see his wife and kid."

"Not that. I don't get why he said yes to Cass in the first place. He's all about returning to his family now, but he knew back then that saying yes meant walking away from them."

"I don't know, Sam. Religion makes people do extreme things sometimes. You shake the Jesus doggy biscuit at some people and they get up on their hind legs to dance without a second thought."

Sam snorted.

"What?"

"You know I'm a believer, Dean."

"Yeah, and more power to you," Dean replied. "I'm not saying they're—you're— _all_ like that. It just sounded to me like there was a hole in Jimmy's life that Castiel filled. I mean, the dude stuck his hand into a pot of boiling water because a disembodied voice told him to. That's not normal behavior."

"Says you," Sam said. He shut his eyes and rubbed his lips with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, I do." Dean glanced at him. "Why do you keep doing that? Are you thirsty or something?"

"Doing what?"

"It looks like you're licking your hand. It's weird."

"Some spit escaped from my mouth," Sam retorted. "Get off my back."

Dean glared at him, but he knew from the tone in Sam's voice that he was authentically irritated. With more than four hours to go until Pontiac, he decided to not press the issue.

"What about you?" Sam said, after so much time had passed that Dean had believed the conversation dropped for good.

"'What about me,' what?"

"You said you thought there was a hole in Jimmy's life that Cass filled." Sam sniffed and crossed his arms and stared, owlish and avid, across the width of the car. "What about your life?"

"I'm not following you, dude."

"You and Cass," Sam said, sounding very tired. "How the two of you became best friends all of a sudden."

"We're not 'best friends.'"

"I was thinking about it a while back," Sam continued. He ran his fingers through his hair, looked out the window. "You never really had friends when we were growing up. I mean, you had your 'girlfriends,' but real friends?"

"Maybe I just didn't feel like introducing them to my snot-nosed little brother."

"Not like we had much time to forge bonds with other kids, most of the time," Sam said, undeterred. "What with the way Dad raised us—and he was harder on you."

"Do you ever get tired of talking about this kind of stuff?"

"At least I had college to create those kinds of relationships. To just be in a normal situation, away from hunting."

Dean's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Good for you."

"Is Cass the first friend you've had who wasn't a hunter?"

"Of course not," Dean scoffed.

"As an adult?"

Dean blinked at the double yellow line. He clenched his jaw shut and swallowed. A dark green mile marker flicked by in Dean's peripheral vision, then another one.

"Don't worry, Dean," Sam said, with a tenderness that reminded Dean of childhood nights when they were each other's only company. "We'll find out what happened to him."

"Done talking about this," Dean said roughly.

He switched on the radio. Thankfully, the tuner was already close to a Central Wisconsin station that came through strong and clear. The song they were playing was his least-favorite single by the artist, but he turned it up and let it play anyway.

* * *

Sam had gone silent for about thirty seconds when Dean finally decided to say something.

"Sammy?" Dean said. He leaned into the door, almost kissing the iron. "You okay?"

"Of course I'm not okay," Sam hissed. "Let me out of here, Dean."

"I will. Just as soon as Bobby and I figure out how to fix you."

Sam groaned. Dean heard the low, soft sound of fabric giving way to weight; maybe Sam had lain down in the cot.

"What's going on in there?" Dean bellowed.

"I don't need you to fix me, Dean. I need you to stop being a myopic, self-righteous jackass for once and let me do what I have to do to stop Lilith."

"No can do, Sammy." Dean pressed his back into the door and cracked his knuckles. "However this all ends up going down, I can guarantee you that the right way doesn't involve you drinking freaking demon blood. And the fact that I even need to explain that to you only shows how far gone you are."

"Can your lectures for once in your life, Dean," Sam said. "So I'm drinking demon blood; so what? I don't care what it does to me. All I care about is killing Lilith. Stopping the apocalypse. Saving billions of lives. You know, the sort of bigger picture problem here?"

Dean pressed his eyes shut and bit his lip. Beyond the heavy iron portal, Sam's shoes were scuffing against the floor of the panic room in what sounded to Dean like a circuit.

"Well," Dean said, and he heard Sam stop in his tracks. "It's clear we're not getting anywhere."

Sam chuckled mirthlessly. He resumed walking.

"So, I'm going to get something to eat. Want me to bring you anything?"

"Just leave me alone," Sam said. "When you and Bobby strike out in your search for another way to gank Lilith, come get me."

"Oh, come on. Just tell me what you want for lunch. Stop being a bitch about it."

Dean grinned in anticipation of Sam's response, but the only sound from the chamber was his measured footsteps on the concrete. Dean turned away from the door and trudged up the cellar staircase.

It was a sunny day; the high was meant to be in the low fifties. Bobby had opened a few windows to let in fresh air, so the house was colder than the basement. Dean took in a deep breath and looked around.

"Bobby?"

"In the kitchen!" Bobby shouted.

Dean stopped in the doorway of the kitchen and put his hands on his hips. Bobby had laid out sandwich components over one of the few empty countertops and was staring down the barrel of a mayonnaise jar. Creedence Clearwater Revival was playing from the radio on the dining table.

"My blood-sipping brother is locked up in the basement, we're facing the imminent end of the world, and you're making a turkey sandwich to 'Bad Moon Rising.'" Dean rolled his eyes. "Irony is officially dead."

"Irony in this house died about twenty years ago, idjit." Bobby glanced at him as he scraped out the last of the mayonnaise. "You feel like going on a supply run?"

"If I need to. I'd rather stay here and watch Sam."

"Well, it's not like he's going anywhere," Bobby said. "Look, I'll drive into town if you're not feeling up to it."

"No, I might as well." Dean checked his pocket for his keys. "Maybe you'll get further with him than I have."

Bobby let out a puff of breath as he peered out the window. "Something tells me we won't get anywhere with him for a while."

"We don't have 'a while,' Bobby. We're running out of options here."

"You think I don't know that, boy?" Bobby held out a folded piece of paper. "Here, go vent your crappy mood on the poor kid who has to bag your groceries. At least he's getting paid for it."

With a sheepish nod, Dean accepted the shopping list and left the house through the back door. When he rounded the corner and the hood of the Impala came into view, his pace slowed. He lay his hand on the cool steel; his fingertips left behind clear lines. The car needed a wash again.

Dean kicked at the dirt of the driveway; he squinted the tears out of his eyes. He sat gingerly on the hood and gazed, through the frayed and fitful line of trees on the edge of Bobby's property, at the horizon.

"Look," Dean said. "I don't actually expect you to come, after what you said. Although—I'm still not sure I understand it, if I'm being honest."

Castiel's words had been replaying in his head since the previous morning. _I learned my lesson while I was away, Dean. I serve Heaven; I don't serve man. And I certainly don't serve you._ For the most part, it was fairly self-explanatory. The sticking point, when Castiel had first uttered it as well as now, was the last sentence.

"Even if you got an, uh, attitude adjustment upstairs, I know you can still hear me. Because you said you could, before—" Dean looked down at the center line of the Impala's hood. "Before."

"You probably know what I'm worrying about right now," Dean continued. "Not just because you know me, though you'd probably guess just based on that. But you were there, Cass. You saw him—you saw what he did with your own eyes." Dean simpered into the bright blue sky. "You were right; you said I had to stop him. Feel free to come down here and say 'I told you so.'"

After a few seconds of nothing but the whistling breeze, Dean dropped his fake smile. He held his hands together over his navel and rubbed one thumb into the other.

"Usually, I'd crash out like a log after a couple of days like the last two," Dean murmured. "But I'm not even tired. I'm scared; too scared to think about sleep. It almost feels like I've been living in fear for my entire life, and all of that fear was leading to this moment. If that makes any kind of sense."

He paused and gripped the chrome of the grille, steadying his emotions. He waited and waited, but when he finally opened his mouth again, his voice still wavered in the wind.

"I think you're the first person I've admitted that to," Dean confessed. "I can't admit it to Sam; I have to be strong for him. I don't know, maybe the fact that I know you're listening even if you're not here—maybe that makes it easier to talk to you. I guess this is how some people feel when they talk to God or...whatever they believe in." He pursed his lips, uneasy with that comparison as soon as it left his mouth.

"Last time, I prayed to you." Dean scraped the heels of his boots into the soil and threw his shoulders back. "At the warehouse the other day. I thought that'd be the fastest way to reach you. I'm not sure whether I was right or wrong about that, but this, here and now? This isn't a prayer. To tell you the truth, I don't give two shits about Heaven, or God, or the other angels, or the fact that I'm apparently the only one who can stop the apocalypse. This is just me telling you that I'm scared. That I don't want to lose you and Sam both."

Dean looked in the direction of the house, then at the columns and rows of scrapped cars. He peeked over the hood of the Impala, down the long, lonely dirt road that led to the highway. For many years as a boy, even long after he'd known better, he'd indulged in the belief that looking around for something he wanted would make it more likely to appear. Sometimes, that had been an extra quarter for the pinball machine; other times, the twin rays of their father's headlights through the cheap curtains of a motel window.

He slumped into the driver seat and turned over the ignition. Castiel wasn't coming. On some level, Dean had known that all along, yet he still had hoped. Even now, he hoped.

Faith, to Dean, was a thing that he'd set down at some forgotten juncture of his shattered childhood and then never bothered picking up again. It could have been the desperation of his circumstances, but he found himself, as the driveway turned to road, wandering back through time in search of the childish things he still deserved to have.

It didn't make any sense. For the first time in a long while, he thought that he might finally find them.


	16. Santa Monica

It felt good to be next to Dean again, close enough to touch the cocoon of heat around his body. Despite all he had endured as a captive in Heaven's jail, Castiel couldn't deny that to himself.

"I'm waiting," Dean said. He laughed bitterly. His breath, a thin white column sour with the stench of rye whiskey, rose up into the drizzle of the spring night.

"I said we would call upon you when the time comes," Castiel replied.

"That's not what I'm waiting for." Dean licked his lips. "I'm waiting for you to disappear again. Go on, Cass. Fly away, little bird."

"You could just as easily walk back into Bobby's house."

"Come again?"

"You could turn around and walk away if you don't want to talk to me. It's your own choice to remain here, sullen."

"My own—" Dean's jaw fell open. He braced his hands behind his neck and walked in a small circle. "That's the point: we're _not_ talking, Cass. We're—frankly, I don't know what we're doing. I gave you what you wanted, didn't I? Swore your stupid oath?"

"You did."

"Then why are you still treating me like I'm the dogshit stuck to the bottom of your shoe?"

Castiel sighed and jutted his chin forward. "Fine. What do you want to talk about, Dean?"

"You're serious?"

"I'm always serious."

"Yeah. Okay." Dean put his hands on his hips. "Well, there's a lot."

"I have some time."

"Alright. Why did you ignore me this afternoon?"

"This afternoon?" Castiel narrowed his eyes.

"In the driveway," Dean said, with a flick of his head in its direction. His voice broke midway through the final word. "I poured my heart out to you, man. I can count on one hand the number of times I've done that in my life, and you didn't even care enough to make an appearance."

"Oh." Castiel glanced at the Impala, only one of the front corners of which was visible in Bobby's porch light. "That."

"Yes, that. Didn't you hear me?"

"I heard you."

"And?"

"And what?"

Dean snorted. "Alright. I get it. This—this 'new you,' it's all about proving to Zachariah and the rest of the management upstairs that you can be a merciless dick to me, isn't it? That's what you meant when you said 'I certainly don't serve you,' right?"

"No, Dean." Castiel let out a breath as he stepped towards him. "I'm not trying to be needlessly cruel to you. All I'm doing is obeying the mission parameters Heaven established for me. Nothing more, nothing less."

"And what the hell does that mean?"

"It means that I'm only allowed to come to you when you pray. Answering the call of the faithful is official angelic business, so I'm permitted to see you then. What we were doing before...." Castiel looked down at the gravel, at the nebulae of motor oil in the rainwater puddles. "It's better this way. This way, we're ensuring accountability to Heaven on both our parts."

"Ensuring accountability? What do they think I'm going to do, make you fly me to Lauderdale for spring break?"

"In any case," Castiel said, ignoring him. "All of my actions are being closely watched now. I have to prove to Heaven that I was...cured of my affection for you. That I've been fully rehabilitated."

"'Cured?' 'Rehabilitated?'"

Castiel nodded in response. Above them, the ragged clouds chased each other across the plains, hiding the stars and hinting at rain.

"You're talking like you've been brainwashed by a cult."

"And they would say that you're the one who was doing the brainwashing," Castiel said patly. He held his hands behind his back and stiffened his spine. "Is that everything?"

"Not even close."

"Very well. But we should hurry. Rain is imminent. And you'll want to check on Sam soon."

"I don't need tips from you—from any angel—on how to take care of my brother. You know, you could've done more to help us before things got to this point."

"If that's what you think," Castiel replied. "What else do you want to talk about?"

"I want to know why you got beamed up to Heaven, for one."

"I can't tell you the entire reason why."

"But part of it had to do with me?"

"Yes. I...was becoming too close to you to carry out my duties efficaciously. Heaven realized that I was placing my affection for you before my commitment to Heaven and the other angels. They were right." Castiel glanced at Dean's shoulder and swallowed. "They were right to bring me in."

"You know," Dean said. "The more I learn about Heaven, the better I feel about thinking it was all a giant scam for my entire life."

"It's fine if you feel that way. As long as you serve us when the time comes."

"Screw you, Cass."

"Is that everything?"

"No," Dean snapped. "I want to know what happened to you while you were away. And don't spare me the details."

"I'll tell you what I can. After I was raptured, I was led to Heaven's jail, the domain of the angel Thaddeus. He is Heaven's warden, inquisitor, torturer—"

"So, an all-around great guy."

"He was a paragon of compassion, once." Castiel held up his hand, receiving the first drops of a rainshower. "Zachariah told him that I could be reformed, so I was spared the worst of the treatment that prisoners receive there."

"I don't know, Cass. He clearly did a number on you."

"It started with physical torture—not the sort you'd recognize, since we're beings of energy. But physical, nonetheless. Then about a week of visions. Nightmares, really."

"Of what?"

"Of—" Castiel hesitated. He watched Dean wipe the raindrops away from his eyes. "Of you being ripped apart. Boiled; sliced into ribbons. Returned to Hell, where you took up your instruments again with enthusiasm."

"What the—" Dean walked up to Castiel and grabbed his shoulders. "Don't you see how demented this is?"

Castiel shook him off. He slid several steps backwards before resuming his account.

"Midway through the...program, before the second round of visions, Thaddeus gave me the customary day for reflection. He sat on the floor of my cell with me and recounted the story of Etemenanki."

"Should I know who that is?"

"Etemenanki was a ziggurat that towered above Babylon, in ancient Mesopotamia. Some of humanity—the ones who fancied themselves the favorites of God—saw Etemenanki and transfigured it, through the slipping and lolling of tongues through the centuries, into the myth of Babel." Castiel shrugged in response to Dean's bemused expression. "We still call it by its name. Angels are unsentimental."

"Wait, the Tower of Babel? That was real?"

"Etemenanki was a real structure. At no point did God or any of His angels retard its construction. It stood for hundreds of years before being brought down by a human king. In fairness to the legend, he was not from Babylon, and didn't speak their language."

Dean frowned. He was trying to work out what any of this had to do with him, Castiel assumed.

"Thaddeus would ask me what Etemenanki meant; I would answer that it meant the 'temple of the foundation of heaven and earth.' The Babylonians thought it was the site that joined the terrestrial and celestial realms. We angels have latched onto the fable to police one another, even if it's exactly that. After his recitations, Thaddeus declared that the sin of Etemenanki—of Babel—was my sin."

"What, speaking more than one language?"

"No, Dean. The point of the allegory is that Heaven and Earth are never to meet; that it's wrong for man to touch Heaven; that the proper place of man is beneath Heaven. By developing feelings for you, by placing you above my fidelity to Heaven, I came dangerously close to falling."

The rain had passed, leaving behind the bright ozone scent of angels. Castiel breathed in deeply. "Luckily, Zachariah saved me before that could happen."

"Yeah? Well, here's what I think. All of that sounds like a crock of shit to me."

"Dean," Castiel sighed. "Please."

"You said it yourself, Cass. It's a fable; a story. None of it means a damn thing." Dean kicked a spray of loose rocks into the side of Bobby's garage. "Goddammit. I can't believe we just wasted all that time—that we stood out here in the freezing rain—for you to tell me that bullshit story. They propagandized you damn well."

Castiel flinched. "I'm sorry that you see it that way, Dean. Is that everything?"

"Yeah," Dean mumbled. He slicked his drooping, rain-flattened hair away from his forehead. "It's pretty obvious that I won't get through to you."

"We'll call upon you soon," Castiel said. He gazed at Dean's shoulder, feeling the familiar longing. That, in and of itself, was not a failure, as long as he was strong enough to resist it.

Dean had already turned his back on him.

"Goodbye, Dean."

* * *

_Everything is in place_ , Castiel wrote. _Dean has placed himself at our feet. Sam has been freed._

_I await your further orders._

Castiel lifted his pen from the parchment, sending the latter to Zachariah's desk. He leaned back in his chair and turned to his office window. There, Jimmy sat atop the Persian carpet, straight-backed and sphinxlike, staring out at the garden. The unchanging light of Heaven washed over him through the glass, lending his solemn features an ashen complexion.

Jimmy hadn't spoken to him since their reunion, other than to say that he needed time and space to himself. Castiel understood that. He thought that it was better for him to avoid unnecesssary conversation with humans, anyway. Normal angels didn't befriend their vessels.

Castiel rose up, walked to the window, hovered behind Jimmy's slumped back. He supposed that Jimmy, seeing the United States Botanical Garden, was thinking about Amelia.

"If you're having trouble sleeping," Castiel said, with the slightest trepidation. "If you want to get some rest, is what I mean—I could put you to sleep."

"No."

"That's fine," Castiel replied, looking down at the crown of Jimmy's head. The impulse flickered through him to stroke Jimmy's hair, or rub his shoulder, or pat the back of his hand—to show him some understanding and compassion. Even if Jimmy rejected him, he would have tried.

He did not, both out of respect for Jimmy's request for time and space, and because the gesture seemed tantalizingly human. It was better not to tempt fate.

"Castiel," Jimmy said haltingly, after a great deal of time had passed.

"Yes, Jimmy?"

"I want you to know that I said yes to you again because I had to. To save my daughter. It had nothing to do with faith. What we're doing—helping Lucifer to rise, tricking Dean into letting Michael in, handing Anna over to Thaddeus—it's wrong. And you know that."

"It's what has to be done. I'm sorry that you can't see the bigger picture, Jimmy."

"I can see just fine. You disgust me, Castiel."

Castiel walked to Jimmy's bed and sat on one of the corners, which dipped under his weight. He folded his hands together and bowed his head over them.

"I don't do what I do to earn the love of humans," Castiel said. "Not yours, not Dean's."

"You said—" Jimmy scrambled up and whipped around. "You stood right here and told me that you loved us more than God. You said that you loved _Dean_. That he'd changed you."

"I did," Castiel admitted. "But I was wrong."

Jimmy shook his head. His body, already slender and long-limbed, appeared even more delicate when backlit by Eden's sun.

"Even after everything I saw of the other angels, of what Heaven is really like—" Jimmy paused and slid the knuckle of his index finger underneath one eye, then the other. "Even after that, I still believed in you, Cass."

"I know. And I'm grateful for that."

"I thought we were the good guys."

"You don't understand, Jimmy. Neither would Dean, if I told him. Your lives are too short; too circumscribed by your animal urges and your struggle to survive. You only see what's right in front of you. You only repeat what you've been told. You can't comprehend the grand sweep of the universe." Castiel apparated to the window, placed his hand on Jimmy's upper arm. "When Lucifer is vanquished and Earth returns to Paradise, all the souls in creation will rejoice. All of this will be worth it."

"I don't believe you," Jimmy said, pushing Castiel's hand away.

"I understand." Castiel turned away, paced the length of the room. "I know that I've hurt you. Disappointed you. I hope that you'll forgive me when God's kingdom arrives on Earth. When all the suffering of the world is swept away forever."

"When all the evil things we've done pay off?"

"If...that's how you want to put it."

"If you're so convinced that you're doing the right thing, why haven't you told Dean the truth?"

Castiel stopped in his tracks. "Because I haven't been ordered to."

"Because you know how he'd react, more like. He'd tell you that what you're doing is wrong. Maybe you're not ready to hear that."

"It doesn't matter," Castiel said brusquely. "I won't disobey Heaven any longer. Dean will hear from me what he's supposed to, and no more."

Jimmy turned his back to Castiel and pressed his palms into the windowsill.

"You love Dean," Jimmy said. "You don't do this to someone you love."

Castiel sat silently on the bed, unable to contradict either of Jimmy's assertions.

"What...was it like?" Castiel said. "With Dean? And Sam?"

Jimmy hung his head and chuckled.

"You don't have to tell me. I'm just curious."

"Let's see. First, they pumped me for the information which you had helpfully erased. After that, they held me as their prisoner, so I guess that's one thing you have in common."

"Jimmy, I—"

"Then, Dean forced me to write and draw in a notepad. I guess he thought that would jog my memory." Jimmy glanced over his shoulder. "It did."

Castiel raised his eyebrows.

"I remembered you kissing him," Jimmy said. "I didn't tell him, of course. But...."

"Yes?"

"There was a strange vibe in the room for the rest of the night. I think he noticed something weird with me, but he never came out and said anything."

"Well, Dean is good at repressing his feelings."

"Like you?" Jimmy pointed out.

"No." Castiel returned to his desk. "Quite the opposite. Men are meant to feel; angels are not. Dean's repression goes against his human nature. My...defect is what goes against mine."

"You aren't defective, Cass."

"It's kind of you to try to make me feel better, Jimmy," Castiel said. "But it isn't necessary."

Jimmy lay down in his bed and looked up at the ceiling. He kicked his shoes onto the ground.

"You're one of the good guys. I know you can be, still."

Castiel shook his head. Jimmy's words were like a lance through the chest.

"I'm not. I can't. I exist to follow orders."

"Despite everything you've gone through, you still have a good heart." Jimmy rolled onto his side to look at Castiel. "I can see it, remember?"

"Thank you," Castiel managed, though even those words required a numbing degree of effort.

"That's another thing you and Dean have in common," Jimmy said, before closing his eyes and relaxing into his pillow.

* * *

Castiel fluttered down before the locked and barred doors of the dilapidated muffler factory. The sky stretched over the San Fernando Valley drumskin-tight, burnt orange below the crowns of the palm trees and mauve and turquoise as Castiel's eyes traveled zenithward. The sunset, lurid and hazy from smog and millions of tiny artificial lights, was at its most refulgent.

 _We're done_ , echoed Dean's voice in his head. _We're done_.

Castiel's wings ached.

He took a few seconds to find his footing on the pavement and orient himself in the direction of the nearest street. With a contemplative breath, he turned on his heel and walked across the empty lot, summoning up for his armor as much outward dignity and authority as he could muster.

 _What happened to 'I'm not here to perch on your shoulder?'_ Dean teased.

With a grunt of habit, rather than effort, Castiel vaulted over the low gate that fronted the sidewalk. He dusted his hands on the hem of his coat and peered at the road sign that hung between the green lights nearby.

"Sepulveda Boulevard," Castiel murmured. He thought that the name had a pleasing cadence, but knew nothing more about the place.

 _We could jump in the car, go for a drive_ , Dean said, as Castiel watched the traffic zoom through the intersection.

Further up the block, underneath the weeping leaves of a eucalyptus, a group of five teenagers with dewy skin and freshly-showered hair waited at a bus stop. Castiel stopped, flaring his nostrils at the overpowering fragrances they had slathered on themselves.

 _You smell nice,_ Dean had said, on top of his car, beside the Missouri River. _I've never been close enough to you to notice._

The youths were eyeing him apprehensively. Castiel turned away, joining the small crowd of people who were entering the crosswalk. The warm, dry air of early evening wafted through the canyon between the tall buildings, bearing the faint odor of burnt chaparral down from the southern foothillls.

 _You don't care at all, do you?_ Dean said, once Castiel was at the midpoint of the avenue. His voice was as acrid and burnt-up as the smoke, and as impossible to grab onto. Castiel stopped in his tracks, closed his eyes, rubbed his temple. After a few seconds, the driver of the car closest to him honked his horn.

"Get out of the road!" he shrieked, after first giving Castiel a vulgar gesture.

Castiel strolled to the curb, where the people waiting for the next light watched him with contempt. He ignored them and continued south on the boulevard, where neon gyms and juice bars faded into seedy motels from the middle of the last century. Darkness covered more and more of the valley with each step he took.

 _If anyone's strictly business, it's you, Cass,_ Dean taunted.

The road seemed to stretch on forever. One of the guards back at the factory had mentioned to him, in the languorous way that angels did when they had to fill a silence with another of their kind whom they cared little for, that the street on which the Green Room lay ran all the way through the mountains and to a long beach. Castiel wondered how much farther he had to walk to get to this beach; what the Pacific Ocean would look like from this shore. He had the time, he supposed: Zachariah wouldn't need him again until Sam had killed Lilith.

_There's a part of you that knows this is wrong, man._

Castiel stopped and sighed. He had been walking briskly for a while now, and the memories of Dean had yet to leave him in peace. For a moment, he considered the possibility that they were not his memories, but Dean's: feedback from Dean's own ruminations, back in the Green Room. Something like hope flickered in his breast.

It couldn't be, Castiel decided. He had heard Dean say it: "We're done."

When Dean made a decision, he seldom wavered from it. There was no reason for him to be thinking about their past now, after Castiel had so thoroughly betrayed him.

_What do you feel, Cass?_

Castiel walked to the nearest corner and surmounted the steps of what looked like a theater. A grand sandstone fountain, bathed in the spotlights that were ubiquitous in this odd corner of the world, bubbled at the center of the forecourt. Far above his head, crimson bougainvilleas spilled from the rooftops like wine from an overfull goblet.

 _You_ , Castiel thought. _This. Us._

A few minutes later, at the bottom of the hour, the trickle of people through the cinema's wall of glass doors became a tide. A cacophany of envy, lust, and despair echoed in the plaza, sending his fantasy conversation with Dean into disarray. Castiel made his way to the sidewalk's edge and flew to the opposite bank.

_So, you're free as a bird now, huh? Even if you're a bird that can't change?_

If he were being honest, he would admit that he _had_ changed, even if just for a little while. He had questioned more; perceived more; desired more. After a while, he had altered the parameters of his mission for Dean. In the end, he had fomented an insurrection that had accomplished nothing.

Was this the end?

 _Why don't you fly me someplace new?_ Dean suggested.

Castiel looked at the mountains above the freeway. Once, he'd filled hours of idle time with thoughts of all the places he could take Dean; of the things Dean would have to say about them.

None of that would happen now, Castiel figured. The Earth would be forever changed by the cataclysm, and it would be eons before Michael relinquished his vessel, if ever.

A momentary, unnatural quiet fell over the boulevard. Castiel listened to the bouncing and scraping of litter in the gutter, relentless in its toxic march to the sea.

Dean poked him impatiently. _That means you, angel boy._

"I'm going," Castiel muttered. He set his eyes on a spot along the ridge where the sky dipped low to meet the planet and flapped his wings.

 _I don't think you're helping your case with them right now_ , Dean said, as soon as they landed.

"I don't care," Castiel said. He was standing in tall grass, between a toyon bush that smelled faintly of cherrywine and a telephone pole, eight cross-bars tall, that yielded almost imperceptibly to the prevailing winds. Several feet away, a crossroads that was improbably empty of cars pointed in the cardinal directions. A sliver of the sun was still visible up here on the mountaintop, and the last glory of the day warmed his body.

_Being in love with someone, wanting so badly for it to work out...but it just can't, you know?_

"What is written cannot be unwritten," Castiel recited, as if it were a homily. "What are men and angels in the face of destiny?"

_Yeah, well God's plan sucked._

"I—" Castiel shook his head. "I don't know. Who are we to question God's plan?"

Dean was silent for a while. Instead of feeling like he had won a rhetorical victory, however, Castiel realized with stinging clarity that his question had been meant entirely for himself.

He already had no faith in Heaven's plan for the world. The question before him now was what to do about it.

 _I don't want to lose you and Sam both_.

Castiel ambled down the slope, looked down at the radiant panorama of the city. He graced his hand over the crowded, joyous inflorescences of golden yarrow that covered the peaceful hillside.

"Dean," Castiel whispered.

He took flight.

* * *

Angels could see the future. Not everything: the rise and fall of earthly kingdoms, for instance, or the winning national lottery numbers in any given month, were as mysterious to Castiel's kind as they were uninteresting. The important things, the cosmic hinge points, however—each of these, wherever they floated in the churning oceans of time at any given moment, were known to every angel. Many years later, Naomi would claim to Castiel that the precognition of angels owed itself to the Word of God having been branded into their programming, and that they were therefore not really seeing the future, but instead merely reciting His plan for the world.

That wasn't quite how she explained it, of course: she presented the two as one and the same. Naomi had an immovable belief in destiny. Perhaps that, too, was in the nature of angels. Despite his adoration for Dean, despite his own authentic commitment to a world in which free will would at last prevail over the the machinations of demons and angels and God himself, Castiel still found it hard to shake the feeling that the hand of fate would win out in the end. The plain truth of it had been written that indelibly into his mind.

There was a tiny wrinkle in all that: the Word of God hadn't said anything about him falling in love with Dean Winchester. In Castiel's very long existence, over which he had seen literally everything under the sun, Dean was the first of those things that had been a complete surprise.

So it was that, in the split second after he and Dean came to rest beside the unlit crossroads but before Dean uttered a word, Castiel inaugurated this moment as the beginning of his new reality.

"Can't see a thing," Dean grumbled. He staggered in the shin-high grass, and Castiel gripped his shoulder to steady him. The familiar warmth of Dean's body under his hand was thrilling.

"Your eyes will adjust soon enough," Castiel said.

Dean stepped away from the limbs of the toyon bush and gazed down at the lights of the city. "Cass, where are we?"

"On a crossroads of Mulholland Drive, in the Santa Monica Mountains."

"Oh. You brought me to _your_ town."

"Listen, Dean." Castiel stepped towards him carefully, mindful of the crumbling hillside. The heat of the day, together with the resinous scent of sage, rose up from the dessicated soil. "I need to tell you something before we move on."

"Cass, the world is literally about to end. And Sam has no idea."

"Yes."

"What's so important that we can just watch the world die?"

"We have a few minutes. None of the celestial indicators of Lilith's final ritual have appeared in the sky yet." Castiel turned to him. "How are you feeling?"

"How am _I_ feeling? You're the one with a cut-up arm."

"It's already healed." Castiel brought Dean's hand to his forearm so that he could feel the smooth skin. "Non-angelic weapons can only wound me superficially, and only for a short time."

"Oh." Dean laughed uneasily. He ran his hand down Castiel's arm, lingered it in his palm for a second before stepping away. "I'm glad you're on my side, then."

"I am," Castiel said. "To Hell and back, quite literally."

"You can say that again."

"I'm sorry for not choosing you sooner, Dean."

Dean laughed again, opening his mouth to the sky this time. His teeth sparkled in the moonlight.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Cass, you sided with one dude and his brother over everything you know. I should be happy that you chose me at all. I'm shocked."

"Don't be," Castiel said.

"Why—I mean, why'd you do it?"

"Why did I rebel?" Castiel peered down at the valley. "I walked down the street, here in one of the great cities of the world. I looked at humanity."

"That's why we're here, I'm guessing."

"Yes. I realized something important on this very spot, just minutes ago."

"You realized I was right."

"What?"

Dean crossed his arms beside Castiel and gave a self-satisfied smirk to the Los Angeles skyline. "You realized that people—that we're worth saving. That the good comes with the bad. That the pain matters because without it, we don't know we're really alive."

"No."

"No?"

"Dean, I've watched humanity since your kind slept naked beneath the stars and used the femurs of large animals as weapons. One speech by you wasn't going to change my opinion of the species as a whole."

"Okay," Dean said. "Then what?

"My walk through the valley was long. The dark of night covered more and more of my path along the way, until, by the end, there was only shadow." Castiel turned back to Dean; he leaned into the narrowness between them. "At the end of it, I realized that I trusted you more than the angels."

"Simple as that?"

"Simple as that," Castiel replied.

He grinned; Dean's eyes crinkled as he beamed back at him. The cool salt air from the ocean swirled over the mountain ridge, rustled the grass and sagebrush, vibrated Dean's short, lustrous hair.

"Well, shit, Cass. Maybe you're more like us than I thought."

"From you, I guess that's intended as a compliment."

"Yes, dumbass, it's a compliment."

The two of them turned to the same din on the road. Dean licked his lips as he squinted into the headlights of the approaching vehicle.

"What is it?" Castiel said.

A white convertible came to rest at the stop sign nearest to them. Three women in their twenties, whose tied-back hair and athletic clothing suggested a sundown departure from one of the nearby trailheads, were shouting along to a rock melody.

"I don't want to be the bad guy," they sang. The woman in the back stretched both hands into the breeze as the driver gunned the engine. "I don't want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore!"

"That reminds me of the time you sang to me in your car," Castiel said, over the squealing of the convertible's tires on the asphalt. "On the way back to Bobby's house."

Dean scowled. "The nineties will never be classic rock."

He seemed so disturbed by the implication that he didn't object to Castiel's comparison of his singing to theirs.

"I see," Castiel said. "Well, I clearly have much to learn. About music and...many other things."

"But you want to, right?"

"Yes. I want to learn about you. All of you."

"Oh. Good, Cass." Dean cleared his throat. "Alright, enough chick flick crap. Where do we go to find Sam? More importantly, can we get there by driving? Because I think that last little magic carpet ride you took me on rearranged my digestive tract."

"I don't know where Sam is," Castiel said.

"You don't know?"

"The angels had no reason to know that information. Our intent was for Sam to kill Lilith, after all. Distributing her location among the rank and file would have risked some dissident showing up and stopping him."

"Someone like you, you mean."

"I imagine I have such a reputation at this point, yes. In any case, the important thing is that I know who does know. Chuck."

"Bathrobe and boxers Chuck?"

"Yes. Chuck is a prophet. He has to know where Sam is; nothing would be more important to my father than Lucifer being freed. He would have his conduit write down every detail of the moment."

"Right." Dean took in a quick breath. "Well, we better get to Chuck, so we can get to Sam and stop the apocalypse. Otherwise, all you'll be learning about is how I cope with the mother of all adverse circumstances."

"Yes." Castiel averted his gaze. "Dean, there's one more thing. This may be selfish of me, but—"

"What is it?"

Castiel tapped two fingers to Dean's forehead. Dean grimaced, and blinked, and glanced at Castiel's lips.

"You remember?"

"Yes," Dean said, his voice sounding like he had been yelling into the wind for hours. His eyes glittered faintly in the skyglow as they darted up and down Castiel's body. He swayed and stumbled.

"Dean." Castiel grabbed his wrist, held him upright. Every hair on Dean's arm was erect.

"I—" Dean shook him off. He shrugged the shoulders of his jacket back into place. "Cass, I just can't right now."

"Can't what?"

"I can't—it's the apocalypse, man! I mean, I didn't know what I was doing."

Castiel tilted his head.

"I'm sorry I did it," Dean continued. He stole a look at Castiel before looking away, back to the safety of the city lights. "You're right; it was wrong of me."

Castiel placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. "I...don't hold it against you, Dean."

"Thanks," Dean mumbled. He crossed his arms, turned away from Castiel's touch. "I just wish...."

"What?"

"I wish it had never happened." Dean coughed, cleared his throat. The guttural noise echoed against the walls of the valley. "Come on, we have to find Sam."

"You're right," Castiel said, and his words fell awkwardly because he had said them too quickly. He hesitated before slipping his hand into Dean's warm, damp palm. Dean flinched at the contact, but didn't recoil.

As they rose to the lower stratosphere, Castiel shielded Dean's body from the cold with his own. The millions of little lights far below glimmered, blurred together, and finally vanished beneath the high clouds that pushed in from the ocean.

Maybe Dean would visit this place again one day, after he was gone. Maybe he would think about him.

* * *

Time is fluid. In the beginning, Castiel had said that to him.

It perplexed him that humans, by and large, did not comprehend this as the obvious truth that it was. Their pasts, after all, ceaselessly prefigured their presents and—for all but a few of them—their futures. Not only that, but the same logic that applied to individuals held at the level of the species. The ocean of humanity grew wider and deeper with each generation, but the ebb and flow of its tides remained the same, as did the dashing of its waves against the shore.

Because time bent and curved around the angles of any given moment, a few seconds could become years and centuries of memories. By the same principle, the great bulk of every human life inevitably dissolved into murk before very long, even for the person who had gone through it.

Dean, Castiel decided, would remember him for his duties and his rebellion against them. The memory of everything else would hurt him too much. Dean had said it himself: he wished that none of it had ever happened.

_I don't want to lose you and Sam both._

That was the other thing. The less Dean recalled of Castiel, the less he would suffer.

He knew, when he vowed to hold off the archangel, that he would not survive. Open defiance of Heaven meant disintegration, at the very least, and the best he could hope for was to draw Raphael into a conversation, regale and misdirect him for long enough for Dean to get through to his brother.

Aside from all that, Castiel desired death.

It was nothing so maudlin as wanting to die for the man he'd fallen in love with. He wanted to die because he felt that he needed to atone for his abominable actions: his deception when it came to Michael's plan for Dean; his inability to keep Jimmy and his family safe; his acquiescence—the mitigating circumstances notwithstanding—to Michael's hastening of the apocalypse; his betrayal of his brothers in favor of a human who felt nothing but contempt for them. In those fleeting seconds, as the house's foundation trembled and the disheveled kitchen groaned with angelfire, all of those things seemed equally true, and weighty, and worthy of expiation.

There really was a part of him that was attracted to the romance of sacrificing himself for Dean, of course. He was drawn to the notion—one that he would much later realize came from Dean himself—that self-negation was the pinnacle of love.

Time is fluid. No matter how many times Castiel died; no matter the lengths to which he and Dean went, together or apart; no matter the efforts of the Empty to strongarm him into reliving his many regrets, Castiel found himself endlessly returning to this moment.

"Castiel," Chuck hollered. "I don't understand!"

"I chose Dean," Castiel said.

"Chose him over what?"

"Over everything."

Chuck's bottom lip fell open. His wide grey eyes searched Castiel's face.

"I'm proud of you," he said, with a furrowed brow and what sounded like awe.

It was a strange thing to say, and Castiel didn't say anything back. There wasn't any time. His brother was coming.

Castiel closed his eyes and let the light wash over him.

* * *

"Time is fluid," Castiel murmured. He smiled wistfully. It had been years since he'd last repeated that, even to himself.

Dean's leg twitched on the bed beside him. Castiel wiped the beads of sweat from Dean's forehead, stroked the side of his face, and waited.

He would open his eyes soon.


	17. Bargain

Dean gasped and opened his eyes. The ceiling, lit by overlapping ellipses of lamplight and pierced at one of the corners by a hairline fracture in the paint, was one he knew. And not just that: the way the memory foam cupped his body; the dull whirring of the ventilation fan; the cool, damp smell of underground cement. It was all feeling more familiar by the second.

His bedroom. The bunker. Lebanon.

He gulped down saliva, blinked rapidly. Just as he tensed his middle in an effort to sit up, a firm hand pressed on his shoulder. Castiel's face edged into his cone of vision.

"Cass?"

"It's okay, Dean." Castiel glanced at Dean's thudding chest. He rubbed Dean's collarbone through his T-shirt.

"What's—what's going on?"

"You're in your room in the Men of Letters' bunker."

"My room?" Dean rubbed his temple. "Lilith? Sam!"

"Shh," Castiel said. "Sam's fine. You're fine."

Dean pushed himself up by the elbows. This time, Castiel didn't stop him.

"Cass, you're not making any sense. We were just—the apocalypse. Lucifer." Even as he said these words, their significance slipped through his fingers like sand. He felt like he was in a waking dream.

"The year is 2020. We're in north-central Kansas, in your room, underground. It's—" Castiel turned to the alarm clock on Dean's nightstand. "5:35 AM. Sam's down the hall. So is Jack."

"Jack," Dean echoed. The name fell from his palate clumsily.

"You're still disoriented." Castiel stroked Dean's cheek with the side of his index finger. "That's to be expected."

"What do you mean?" Dean said, immediately suspicious. When Castiel was this affectionate, it meant one of two things: either they had just scored a big win, or he'd done something that he knew would upset Dean. Given how off-kilter everything felt, Dean was betting on the latter.

"Memory transfer."

Dean squinted at him. That was the other thing: Castiel was more enigmatic, more laconic. It was almost like the old days.

"I imparted to you my memories from the nine months after we met." Castiel's hand went still; he averted his eyes. "And returned to you your memories from the same period. The ones I erased when I touched your forehead and sent you to Sam, just before Lucifer rose."

Dean's head swam. Now that Castiel had pointed it out, he realized that uncountable hours of recollections that were not his own had been flitting through his head since his awakening. Interspersed with them were experiences that were plainly his, but new. Somehow, he had both never felt the absence of his own memories and felt now made whole by their restoration. In his groggy, fragmented, coiled-tight state of mind, both things were true.

"I need a drink," Dean said. He looked around at the side of the bed for his slippers.

"It's morning."

"A drink of water," Dean said, over his shoulder.

"It's better if you lie down." Castiel walked to the door. "I'll bring it to you."

"Look, Cass? You just did...whatever you did to me. My head hurts like a bitch, I keep seeing weird flashes of colored light, and I'm viewing myself through your eyes, which is just weird."

"Those are common side effects. That's why you should rest. Let me—"

"Stop, okay? Just stop." Dean pulled his bathrobe from its hook and wrapped it around himself. He drew himself up, staring a challenge at Castiel. "Did you even ask me for permission before you did that?"

"I...asked you if you trusted me. You said yes."

Dean shook his head. "Because I'm a fool who never learns."

Castiel winced, but carried on. "Last night—early this morning—when you were preparing for bed. I said that I needed to tell you something, but that I could only do it by touching you. And that you should lie down. You don't remember any of this?"

It seemed like the kind of thing Dean would remember. He stored each of the times Castiel had been in his room—for anything other than a case update or a goodbye, at least—in a safe, well-worn corner of his mind which he kept under constant guard. It disappointed him that he couldn't recall the previous night with any clarity; still, Dean knew preternaturally that Castiel was telling him the truth.

"Maybe. I don't know, Cass. There's a whole lot of weird going on in my head right now, so I'm sorry if I can't remember every little thing you've ever said." Dean walked to the door. "Excuse me."

Castiel sighed and stepped away from the threshold; Dean brushed past him with a glower and walked up the corridor. He heard Castiel shut his bedroom door softly and the tapping sound of his dress shoes as he followed behind.

"So, how long did that whole—whatever you did." Dean turned on the lights in the galley. "How long did it take?"

"Not very long. A little more than a normal night's sleep for you. The human brain is fast, resilient."

"If you say so," Dean scoffed. He checked the water level in the coffeemaker. "At least I didn't end up like Donatello."

"He—I did that to protect all of us." Castiel leaned back into the island, returning Dean's jape with a stony glare. "Besides, he's better now. I don't know why you say things like that."

Dean paused midway through pouring ground coffee into the filter. "Sorry."

"I went slowly. I didn't want to harm you in any way."

"I know you wouldn't, Cass."

"Nevertheless." Castiel smiled tightly. "I wanted to finish the transfer quickly enough that we'd have time to talk before I leave."

Dean's hand froze on the coffeemaker's power switch. "You're leaving?"

"Yes," Castiel said.

"Why?"

"Later. Let's talk about the memories first."

"Oh, great. 'Talk about our feelings.'" Dean pulled his favorite mug from the cabinet and interposed it between them. "Can I at least have my first cup of life before we do that?"

Castiel raised his hands in a gesture of acquiescence. For a few minutes, the grumbling of the coffeemaker was the only sound in the galley. Castiel relocated to the dining table, from where he stared at Dean in the keen, contented way that had for years both roused Dean and uneased him. That was before the intensity of his presence had become mundane, comforting; and then, even more years later, necessary.

"Are you...feeling okay?" Castiel said finally.

"I don't know." Dean looked at the machine, even though he was so used to it that he knew when it was done based solely on the sound of the water. "I don't know, Cass."

"I can try healing you."

"That isn't what I mean."

"I understand."

Dean lifted the carafe, poured himself a too-full cup of coffee. He sipped as he made his way to the table, and it burned his mouth.

"You're grimacing," Castiel observed, as Dean sat down across from him.

"Drank too fast."

Castiel reached for Dean's arm. Dean flinched away.

"I can soothe your burn, Dean. Let me."

"You sure?"

Castiel tilted his head.

"What I mean is: you're not going to mess around inside my head, just as a bonus?"

"I would tell you—ask you—if I were going to do that."

They were going to fight, Dean decided. Better to get it all out into the open than store it away and let it gnaw at him. He'd spent his entire life saving up his anger, thinking it sustained him, pushing away everyone who cared about him in the process. He'd told Castiel that he would try to do better. He might as well start now.

"Like you asked me at Chuck's house?"

Castiel sighed.

"Oh, wait. You didn't ask me. You just wiped my memory to cover your own ass."

"That was...a long time ago. Before I knew much about humanity, or free will, or you. Us."

"Cass—"

"And that isn't why I did it. You know the real reason; you have my memories now."

Dean shook his head and tested the coffee again.

"And I don't see how self-interest could've been my motivation, since I didn't survive."

"Well, you look pretty alive to me."

Castiel sat back, stung. He rested his hands on the bench and watched Dean drink his coffee for a few minutes.

"Dean, you have a right to be angry."

"Oh, thanks. Thanks for giving me that right, Cass."

"But I didn't do what I did for myself. I did it for you."

Dean snorted. "For me?"

"Yes. I did it because I didn't want you to suffer. I didn't want you to have doubts or regrets. I knew Raphael would kill me and—you said you wished nothing had happened—"

"No," Dean snapped. "Don't you dare blame this on me, alright? I didn't have time to process...everything. _I_ never asked you to do that."

Castiel nodded slowly. "So you don't regret knowing?"

"I don't know, Cass. This whole thing is just...." Dean shook his head, sipped more of his coffee. "The thing is, every time I think you're finally being straight up with me, I find out there's more you're hiding. Every time."

"No, Dean. There isn't; not anymore. That's the whole point. I wanted to be open with you. Truthful."

"You had years, man. You had more than a decade."

"It never—I couldn't find the right time to tell you."

"Right. And what if you hadn't come back after the last time? I never would've known?"

"You're blaming me for being killed by Lucifer?"

"I'm blaming you for not trusting me, Cass. For not being honest."

"No." Castiel shook his head. "You're being unreasonable. It isn't as simple as that."

"Yes, Cass, it is." Dean stood and made his way to the counter for another cup of coffee. "It really is as simple as that. And I'm being totally reasonable. You're just making excuses, like you always do."

"When exactly should I have told you, Dean? When Lucifer was loose in the world? When I was dead? Amnesiac? Insane? When we were fighting for our lives every day in Purgatory?"

Dean didn't reply. He poured his coffee, watched the steam condense on the steel cabinets above the counter.

"After that, I was mind-controlled; I lost my grace; you had the Mark of Cain, then you were a demon; Lucifer inhabited my vessel; then there was everything with Kelly and Jack, at the end of which Lucifer killed me again—"

"Look, Cass." Dean walked back to the table with his mug. "You can rationalize all you want. And I'm not saying I don't get where you're—you're coming from. But none of that changes the fact that you've been lying to me all these years."

"I know," Castiel said. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"And I know I'm not the easiest person to talk to sometimes."

"Sometimes," Castiel replied, with a hint of a smile.

"But I thought we were finally past all these—these secrets. I thought, after Purgatory, and Jack coming back, and everything....I don't know. I told you I was sorry for not listening to you. Didn't you think you could talk to me?"

"Yes."

"But?"

"We've been a bit busy since then, Dean." Castiel rubbed his chin. "And it's hard to break old habits, I suppose."

Dean closed his eyes and sighed. He raised his coffee to his lips.

"Could it be, Dean," Castiel said tentatively, "that you're not angry because I didn't tell you, but because I did?"

"Come again?"

"I know that you...repress a lot of who you are. If you're uncomfortable because of what happened between us back then—"

"No. No, don't turn this around on me, Cass. We'll deal with everything else—all of _that_ —later. Right now, we're talking about you playing God with my head. You know God, right? The dick of dicks you, and me, and Sam, and Jack just finished locking up?"

"That isn't what I did. It's completely different."

"How, Cass? How is it different? You know, I've put up with a lot of crap from you over the years."

"You're not the only one," Castiel said, under his breath.

"If it were anyone else—I mean anyone—I would've ganked their ass a long time ago. But you—" Dean paused. "I mean, I think you know how much you mean to me. You've sure taken advantage of it enough times."

"You're wrong!"

Castiel was shouting. For once, he seemed completely uncowed by Dean's display of wrath, and Dean felt a lightning bolt of panic as he swallowed. Maybe he'd pushed Castiel too far again, like he had when they'd returned to the bunker after Rowena's death.

"Everything I do—everything I've ever done since we met—is because I love you."

Dean's shoulders stiffened. He met Castiel's eyes, and his hands froze on the rim of his coffee cup.

"It's not like I haven't told you before," Castiel said, as he looked down.

"Cass," Dean murmured.

A familiar shuffling and throat-clearing floated in from the hallway. Both of them turned to the door.

"Morning, guys," Sam said. He stretched in the doorway. "How long have you been up?"

"Not too long," Dean said. His voice sounded uneven as it left his mouth.

Sam rubbed his lower back and yawned. "Can I have the rest of this coffee?"

"Go for it."

Castiel and Dean eyed each other as Sam retrieved a mug and poured. Castiel's visage was a model of diffidence: he was intensely present, yet somehow detached at the same time. He'd told Dean once that he didn't get nervous, but that had been a long time ago—before he'd begun questioning Heaven, even. Now that Dean held a copy of his memories, he knew that the germ of rebellion had already taken root even then, in the form of his affection for the man he'd lifted from Hell. The fact of it warmed Dean's sluggish morning blood and quickened his heart.

"What, uh—" Sam returned the carafe to the coffeemaker and retrieved a carton of almond milk from the refrigerator. "You guys have any plans today?"

"I don't know yet," Dean said. He glanced at Castiel, who didn't respond. "You?"

"Jack and I are going down to Wichita. I'm taking him to the zoo." Sam turned around, leaned into the counter as he stirred his coffee. "I'm pretty sure I mentioned it to you guys the other day."

"Oh. Yeah, I remember now." Dean stroked his finger along the handle of his mug.

"You sure neither of you want to come with?"

"Thank you," Castiel said. "But I can't."

"We have to work on something here," Dean added.

"What is it? You need help with anything?"

Dean returned Sam's offer with a neutral expression that he hoped looked normal enough. "No, Cass and I have to handle it on our own."

"Ah," Sam said, after a long pause. "Yeah. Alright." His eyes darted to the doorway, then to the floor in front of him, as he drank from his mug.

"Why don't you sit with us?" Castiel suggested. He patted the table.

"Yeah, Sammy. Stop standing there like the fat kid in the lunchroom."

Sam slid onto the bench beside Castiel. He studied Dean's face, furrowing his brow before long.

"You feeling alright, Dean? You look a little, um, stressed."

"I'm fine. It's nothing." Dean fiddled with his mug, turning it around in his hands. "You know I'm not chirpy in the morning."

"Oh, you never know," Sam said. "That could change." He slurped his coffee loudly.

"I'm forty-one years old, Sam. Eighty, if you count—" Dean met Castiel's eyes for a split-second, and he broke off. "Point is, I'm not changing my ways now."

"I more meant that, with the whole Chuck situation squared away, maybe you can start sleeping in."

"Maybe. Too bad I couldn't this morning."

"We all deserve a break," Sam continued, either oblivious to the tension at the end of the table or keenly aware of its presence and determined to barrel through it. "Jack, especially. But you, too, Dean."

"I hope Jack likes the zoo," Castiel said, after Dean didn't say anything at all, and Sam threw him a pleading look.

"It's great that he likes animals." Sam placed his mug on the table with delicacy. "Maybe I can get him to try more vegan food. You, uh—you sure you don't want to come with us, Cass?"

"Maybe another time," Castiel replied. There was a look of brooding in his eyes that made Dean both wary of being alone with him and certain that it was utterly necessary.

"When are you going?" Dean said.

"I was thinking around 7:30. I'll get him up soon; I told him he'd have to wake up early. It's a three-hour drive to get there."

"You should take him out to dinner afterwards," Castiel said. "Jack would like that."

"Yeah." Sam shot Dean an inquisitive look, to which Dean shrugged. "Maybe, yeah."

The table was quiet for a couple minutes. Occasionally, Dean would catch and hold Castiel's eyes before glancing down at his lips, and the newly shared memories danced in the air between them, alongside Castiel's last words before Sam had joined them. Sam had taken out his phone, shifting his attention between the lukewarm remainder in his cup and the news from around the world, of which he informed the other two sporadically.

It was almost like a normal morning.

"I might make another small pot," Sam said, standing up.

Dean held out his mug as Sam passed. "Well, if you're making more anyway."

Sam smiled wryly, giving the little twitch of his chin that he couldn't help when something entertained or annoyed him. He yanked away Dean's mug and made his way to the coffeemaker, revealing Jack in the doorway behind him.

"Hello, Jack," Castiel said.

"Good morning," Jack said, with a wave.

"You're up before seven?" Dean glanced at his watch. "The post-Chuck miracles just won't quit."

"Sam told me that we'd have to leave early for the zoo. I set my alarm." Jack shuffled to the refrigerator. "Am I on time?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "I need another cup of coffee and a yogurt, but we can head out soon."

The metal counter rang with the familiar noise of Jack dumping a box of sugary cereal into a large bowl, missing a few pieces that skated over the steel and onto the floor. Castiel reached for Dean's hand, and Dean let him take hold of him.

"Dean," Castiel murmured. "We don't have much time to talk."

"What do you mean?"

"Before I have to leave."

"I'm not doing anything today," Dean said. "I could come with you. Wherever you're going."

Castiel's eyes darted up; Dean looked over his shoulder to see Jack standing behind him. He returned his hands to his lap and cleared his throat.

"Are you guys coming to the zoo with us?"

"No," Castiel said evenly. "Dean and I have to do something here."

"A hunting thing?" Jack said, crunching his cereal.

"No, not really."

"Huh. Well, I wish you'd come."

"I wish—" Castiel seemed to, uncharacteristically, be fighting through emotions as he spoke. "I wish I could."

Jack blinked at him before turning his gaze to Dean. He stirred his bowl.

"You two are acting kind of strange today," he said.

From his place by the coffeemaker, Sam stifled a laugh. Dean shot him a look of warning.

"Dean didn't sleep well last night," Castiel said.

"Cass."

"Oh." Jack stirred his bowl again. "Does that mean you were—were you in Dean's room with him? Did you watch over him?"

"I told him about it," Dean said flatly. "Sam, you okay over there?"

"Yogurt in my throat," Sam muttered.

"Jack," Castiel said. "Which animal are you most looking forward to seeing?"

"Hmm. The gorillas. The tigers. Lions and giraffes. Rhinoceroses. Elephants. Penguins. What else?"

"So, the entire zoo, basically," Dean said.

"Yes." Jack slurped the milk from his bowl. "There aren't many animals here in the bunker."

"Your coffee, sir," Sam said, as he placed Dean's mug in front of him. "Jack, I'll be ready in fifteen minutes. Don't forget the sunscreen; it's supposed to be in the nineties today."

Sam left down the hall with his coffee; Jack clambered up from the table and put his bowl in the sink.

"So," Castiel said, once Jack had followed Sam down the corridor. "Where were we?"

"I don't remember," Dean lied.

"What I did back then," Castiel said. "Are you still upset over it?"

"I'm more upset about you not telling me about it before now, but...." Dean shrugged. "I told you I would try to listen more. Doesn't mean I agree, but I can see why you did it. Sort of."

"I appreciate that, Dean."

"Where are you going?" Dean said, wanting to change the subject. "I can drive you. Might be nice to be out on the road for a while."

"No, I have to go alone."

"Why? You heading to the sandbox? I'll just drop you off and wait in the car."

"No, I'm not going to Heaven. I'll tell you after Sam and Jack leave." Castiel averted his eyes. "Dean, do you look back on all our years together any differently, now that you know everything that happened back then? What I felt; why I did what I did?"

Dean snorted. "Cass, come on. I know I said after my coffee, but—"

"Just answer me, Dean."

"Alright. I'm not sure. I guess I understand you better now, which is weird to say to someone I've known for so long. Someone I trust with my life."

"I'm glad," Castiel said.

"I always felt close to you—like we had a bond, whatever—even if I didn't remember everything that happened, or why. And the bottom line was, you chose me." Dean smiled. "Maybe that's why I always trusted you later on, even when my instincts told me not to."

Castiel canted his head. "Well."

"What?"

"I was right about some of the things you disagreed with."

"Yeah." Dean stroked the handle of his mug. "Not everything, but some stuff."

"Don't sound so pained when you say it."

Dean snorted. He drained his coffee, stood up, and pressed his hand to Castiel's shoulder.

"Let's see them off. Then, you're telling me where you're going."

* * *

"Alright," Dean said, as the garage ramp door creaked shut. He sauntered down the stairs to meet Castiel, who was still standing in the doorway to the rest of the bunker. "Where are we headed?"

"Dean." Castiel took a step back and held the door for him.

"Come on, Cass. You don't even have a car."

"I have to do this on my own, Dean. That's it."

Castiel's posture was slumped; his expression looked stricken. Dean grabbed hold of him at one of the hallway's corners and pulled him in to face him.

"Tell me what's going on, Cass. Right now."

Castiel leaned into Dean's hand and closed his eyes. "I'm...going to meet the Empty."

"What?"

"You can't tell Sam or Jack."

"Like hell I won't."

"Dean!" Castiel pulled Dean by his T-shirt and shook him. "Stop trying to control everything. For once, just listen to me."

Dean slapped Castiel's hand away. No matter what he felt about Castiel's plan, he knew him well enough to be sure that quarreling with him head-on about it, here and now, would be fruitless.

"Okay, Cass." Dean pointed in the direction of his room. "I'll listen."

"Thank you," Castiel said, though none of the tautness in his voice had dissipated.

When they got to his bedroom, Dean closed and locked the door behind them. He didn't know what that would accomplish, though maybe having to unbolt the door himself would help drive home to Castiel that Dean wasn't going to give an inch on whatever his plan was.

They sat together on the foot of the bed, and Castiel began.

"When I made my bargain with the Empty, I hoped this day would come. I knew that Jack had to live in order for the future he'd shown Kelly and me to happen. I knew, deep down, that no matter the cost, the beautiful, just, and peaceful world Jack would bring into being was worth it."

Dean shook his head. He turned away and focused on the shadows on the wall.

"It was more than that, though. I bargained my life for Jack's because I love him. More than anything." Castiel touched the back of Dean's hand. "Except you."

"Cass." Dean balled his other hand into a fist, squeezed hard. "Stop."

"There's no way I can break the pact I made, Dean. The fact is that the Empty could come for me at any time, and I know the three of you would confront it. I know you'd try to do battle; that you'd resurrect me, sacrifice yourselves, endanger everything good that's happened since we dealt with Chuck, all in an attempt to save me."

"Exactly, Cass: Chuck. We won against God himself. That means there's a way to win against this thing, too."

"The Empty is a being equal in power to God, and even more vindictive. It wasn't part of the deal Jack struck with Amara and Billie to seal Chuck away. All it wants is to sleep; to feed on the despair of angels and demons." Castiel bowed his head. "So long as I live, it cannot have what it wants."

"Look, I don't fucking care what it wants. All I know is that you're not sacrificing yourself. We're going to find another way."

"There is no other way," Castiel said testily. "If you and Sam and Jack try to stop the Empty from taking me, it will kill you all without a second thought. And it would without a doubt enjoy it."

Both of them fell silent for a while. When Castiel tried to enclose Dean's hand again, Dean batted him away.

"How long have you known?" Dean said, turning to him.

"You know when I made my deal. When Jack was ill."

"Not that. How long have you known that you were going to meet the Empty? That you were going to sacrifice yourself?"

"For a couple weeks," Castiel admitted. "Right after we dealt with Chuck. I kept putting it off because—because I was afraid."

"You've never been afraid of dying."

"And I'm still not. I was afraid of telling you." Castiel met Dean's eyes. "Afraid of losing you."

"That's it. I'm not listening to any more of this." Dean stood, walked to the side of the room with his wardrobe and record player, and put his hands on his hips."You're not leaving, Cass. We'll find another way."

"Like I said, Dean, there is no other way. And even if there were, I can't risk the three of you being hurt."

"You think you dying won't hurt us?" Dean said, without turning around.

"I'm sure it will at first. But you'll have each other."

"And what about Jack? Huh? You're not going to say goodbye to him? Your son?"

"No." Castiel soughed. "He'd try to stop me. Unlike you, he has the power to."

"That's not the only thing he has the power to stop."

"No, Dean."

"He could stop the Empty from coming for you, Cass."

"No. Absolutely not. I told you, I won't let him take that risk. We don't even know if he's strong enough."

"What do you mean, strong enough? This is the kid who went toe to toe with God and won."

" _After_ Chuck had already killed him once," Castiel replied. "And he had help. I won't allow it, Dean."

"Yeah?" Dean turned around, past caring that Castiel would see his tears. "Well, I don't think you get to make that call on your own."

"Be rational, Dean. The Empty would love nothing more than to collect me and get Jack as part of the bargain." Castiel walked up to him and rested a heavy hand on Dean's shoulder, over the place where the mark had been all those years ago. "Please, Dean. That can't be the last thing I see in this world."

"Isn't that what you're doing to me? You're abandoning us, and I just have to let you die?"

"You'll still have Sam and Jack," Castiel said.

"That's not enough, dammit!"

Dean swept his arm behind him, flinging his collection of records across the floor. Castiel closed his eyes and thinned his lips.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I've made my decision."

"I'm calling Sam right now," Dean said, thrusting his hand into his pocket. "I'm making him and Jack drive back."

"If you get Jack involved, and anything happens to him, I'll never forgive you." Castiel glared at Dean's phone. "Have enough respect for me to let me make my own decisions for once."

"You're a bastard," Dean said, after a long standoff. He placed his phone on the table, beside his record player. "You're a son of a bitch."

Castiel glanced at Dean's desk. "I wrote two letters: one to Jack and one to Sam. I placed them in your top drawer. I'd like you to give it to them twenty-four hours after I leave. I...should be gone by then."

Dean shook his head. "So, you're making me clean up your mess. Typical."

"This is the way it has to be, Dean. This is the way it'll hurt the least. For everyone."

"Then why doesn't it feel that way?"

"I...should leave here when they start driving back," Castiel said. "We only have half a day, Dean. Let's not spend it on anger."

Dean stepped back and sat on the edge of the table. What he thought, but didn't say, was that he had spent most of the last twelve years angry with Sam, with Castiel, with Jack, and with himself most of all. For some reason, his regrets had never been as strong as his resentments.

"We don't have to only have today, Cass," he said, as evenly as he could. "We could have tomorrow, and the next day—"

"Dean, please. This is already indescribably difficult for me."

"Alright," Dean said. He dragged his sleeve over his face. "Okay. What do you want to do?"

"We could...listen to music," Castiel suggested. He looked down at the records strewn over the floor, a lilt in his voice. "And talk."

Dean forced out a laugh. "Always with the talking."

Castiel knelt down, picked up _Who's Next_. He handed it to Dean. Dean sat cross-legged in front of the bed and began a stack of records between them.

"Remember when we first met, and getting any words out of you was like pulling teeth?"

Castiel smiled. "I hadn't really talked to humans before. It took me a while to understand how you communicate."

"Ah, well. You picked it up eventually." Dean licked his lips. "For the most part."

"I'm happy for the time we had," Castiel said. He handed Dean three records which had slid underneath the bed. "It was longer than either of us could have expected, given the odds."

"Stop, Cass," Dean said, willing firmness into his wavering voice. "If we only have a few hours, we're not going to spend it on that."

"Yes." Castiel nodded. "You're right. Let's talk about the future instead."

"The future?" Dean said, with a wince.

"Yes."

"I don't know." Dean placed the records on the table. "I'm not sure what comes next."

"Maybe the three of you could—"

"Cass!" Dean barked.

"What?"

"I don't want to talk about that, okay?"

"I...understand. Apologies."

"Let's just listen to something." Dean lay _Who's Next_ on the turntable, walked to his bed, and propped his pillow against the wall.

"This song," Castiel said. His lip flickered into a fond simper. "Jack loves it."

"You'll never get to see him as a teenager."

"Dean," Castiel warned.

"Okay." Dean motioned to the other side of the bed. "Relax, Cass. We have the whole day."

Castiel hesitated for a moment, then walked to the bed and sat down beside Dean.

"Hey, I was wondering," Dean said.

"Yes?"

"Why'd you decide to give me those—those memories now?"

"Trying to do better," Castiel said. "Learning from my mistakes."

"How's that?"

"Back then, I thought that you'd be happier in ignorance. I mistook your words for your intent. Not only that; I thought that the pain, the regret over what had happened would be too much for you to bear. After I had been killed by Raphael, I mean."

"Too much for me?"

Castiel seemed to gather his thoughts before responding.

"Once, you asked me if I was God."

"To be fair, you were for a while."

"All the same: I am not God, and I never have been." Castiel turned to him; his eyes roved down Dean's body gently, without any trace of covetousness. "Yet, not only did I remake you with my own hands, but I was bonded to you afterward in some way that transcended what I knew about angels and humans. It was as if I'd played some minute role in your creation."

"That's—nope, still creepy. Even after all these years."

Castiel smiled, but his eyes returned to determined solemnity before long. "When I say 'too much,' I mean that I knew your mind. Everything you'd ever thought and felt. In your entire life."

"Because you put Humpty-Dumpty back together again?"

"Yes. And I knew that your feelings about love and sex were...tortured."

Dean crossed his arms. "Cass, this is embarrassing."

"I'm sorry."

"For both of us."

"The point is, whatever we were would have been a distraction for you after I died. Your guilt and shame are overwhelming in the best of circumstances—"

"Cass, please."

"I...thought I was doing the right thing back then. I thought I'd caused you enough trouble and confusion, and that without those memories, you'd flourish instead of languish in my absence."

Dean pressed his lips together. On the table at the other end of the room, the record player began the second track.

"So," Dean said. "What changed?"

"Your memories should be yours," Castiel said. "I realized that a long time ago, but I was too much of a coward to return them to you until now."

"Well, and like you said, it's not like we have a lot of downtime."

Castiel nodded.

"Wait, then why'd you give me _your_ memories?"

Castiel looked away for a long time. Lyrics about bargains, about chasing after the divine, filled the space between them.

"I wanted you to see when I fell in love with you," Castiel finally said.

Dean sat silent, motionless. When Castiel turned to him, he offered him a numb smile.

"That way, even when I'm gone, you'll have something of me."

Neither of them spoke again until the song had finished.

"Dean—"

"Cass," Dean interrupted. "You sure know how to dump everything on a guy all at once."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. You're—next to Sam, you're the most important person in my life. And you always will be."

Castiel grinned. "I'm happy for that."

"But—" Dean expelled a breath. "Cass, I need you."

"Don't, Dean."

"I can't do it without you, man. All this beating God, maybe retiring crap? None of it means anything if you aren't here with me. With us."

Castiel shook his head. "I wish it could be different."

"Cass, please." Dean reached for Castiel's hand, holding it between both of his. "What you said. If you...love me, you won't do this. Please."

Castiel looked down at their joined hands. The entire world seemed to balance on a knife-edge for a few seconds, just as it had in the hospital ward in Casper. Then, Castiel pulled his hand away and brought it to his side.

"The reason I'm doing this," Castiel said, "is _because_ I love you."

They sat side by side, not speaking, Dean with his eyes closed, until the first side of the record had reached its end.

"Shall we turn it over?" Castiel shifted on the mattress. "Dean?"

"Huh?"

"Are you alright? What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking about how I'm going to stop you," Dean said, without opening his eyes. "Or, if I can't do that, how I'm going to gank the Empty."

Castiel's weight left the bed, and Dean looked up at him.

"If you can't respect my decision, I should just leave now."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Go right ahead, Cass. Because as soon as you leave, I'm calling Sam, and we're finding a way to save you."

Without another word, Castiel strode to Dean's door. He unbolted it, threw it open, and marched up the corridor. Dean scrambled after him.

"You're going to get yourself, and Sam, and Jack killed."

"Well, then Billie can bring us back."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "Billie won't do that; you don't have any leverage."

"We're trying, Cass. And that's final."

"I could put you to sleep until Sam and Jack get home," Castiel muttered. He tore through the galley, using it as a shortcut to the war room.

"Then why don't you, Cass?"

Castiel whipped around at the foot of the stairs. "Because that's not what I want my last memory of you to be!"

He had tears in his eyes, which was a strange and astonishing sight. Dean blinked and blotted away his own tears, trying to hold himself together for this last contest of wills. It all seemed like a vain effort.

After a few seconds, Castiel started up the stairs. Dean lunged forward, grabbed Castiel's hand, pulled him back. In the end, Castiel's superior strength prevailed, and he extricated himself.

"Don't leave me," Dean begged. His voice left his mouth soft, broken, and defeated.

Castiel reached out and cupped Dean's cheek in his palm. He wiped the tears away with his thumb.

"I love you," Castiel said.

He slipped away and trudged up the stairs. At the landing, he stopped and turned, seeming to take one last look at the bunker. Then, he passed through the heavy iron door, shutting it with an echoing clank behind him.


	18. Tupelo Honey

_And now, some science news. Researchers at the University of Michigan have confirmed that the large flocks of birds in the Great Lakes region that were first reported by witnesses last week are actually passenger pigeons, a species long thought extinct._

_"Right now, no one really has an explanation."_

_That's Alexander Collins, the evolutionary biologist who led the research team._

_"It's a species that we thought had been driven to extinction a century ago. It's sort of an iconic American species for that reason."_

_When asked for his opinion on why these birds are back now, Collins demurred._

_"Until we know more, I really don't have a strong hypothesis. But for a species to come back from extinction after a hundred years is a real earthquake."_

_"A miracle?"_

_"You could certainly see it that way."_

The sparse buildings of the next dot on the map came into view, and Castiel eased his foot off the gas to match the slower speed limit. This, a white Honda Accord from the mid-2000s with a dreamcatcher dangling from its rear-view mirror, was his second stolen car that day. He had switched out the first one in Scandia so that Dean would have a harder time tracking him.

_The seeming rebirth of the passenger pigeon comes at a time when reports of new populations of critically endangered species have streamed in from around the world. Among them are both species of gorilla, the Central American river turtle, the Bale Mountains tree frog, and the Sicilian Fir. But Collins doesn't think there's any connection._

_"It's hard to see, ecologically, how these events would be related. That isn't to say it's impossible; we just don't know enough yet. This has taken all of us by surprise."_

Castiel cracked his window. The breeze, redolent with the fecund, earthy smell of May in Kansas, streamed in. The dreamcatcher's feathers fluttered lazily.

"Hello, brother."

Castiel turned to the passenger seat, where Uriel, in the vessel he'd died in, sat seatbelt-less.

"Uriel," Castiel said. "Or something that looks like him."

"Where are you going, Castiel?"

"Pontiac, Illinois."

"Ah." Uriel shifted in his seat. "Where you met the ape."

"It's where I met my vessel, as well." Even after all these years, Castiel couldn't dull the edge in his voice that he got when defending Dean to other angels.

Uncharacteristically, Uriel seemed to accept this. He folded his hands together in his lap and turned to look out the window. The cornfields and cumuli of northern Kansas rushed by in the pregnant silence.

"I concede, Castiel. I talked of Paradise, but you actually managed to do it. It's not what I imagined—"

"Lucifer was never going to bring the world Paradise," Castiel said dismissively. "You were stupid."

Uriel chuckled. "Perhaps I was. And perhaps we don't all get as many second chances as you."

Castiel clenched his jaw at that because it was the incontrovertible truth. He turned down the radio.

"It isn't what I imagined," Uriel continued. "And it isn't how I imagined it would come about."

"Well, I didn't do it on my own. A lot of friends helped. Humans, angels—even some demons. We worked together. Many died."

Uriel nodded. "There is always a price."

"Uriel."

"Yes, Brother?"

"Why are you here? If it's really you."

For a second, Uriel seemed taken aback, as if he'd expected pleasant conversation from Castiel for a while longer. Then, he lay his hands on his knees, and his smile returned.

"The Empty sent me. It wants to know what you're doing."

"It knows what I'm doing." Castiel glanced at him. "It didn't tell you, Uriel?"

"I awoke from eternal slumber just now," Uriel said. "It told me only that it was sending me to you and that I was to figure out what you were doing."

"Then I wish we were reuniting under better circumstances."

"Better?" Uriel waved to the fields of gold and the blue sky above them, both of which seemed to stretch on forever. "You returned Earth to Eden. You've ended all the pain and suffering in the world."

"If only that were true."

"I wish I could've seen it," Uriel continued. "But it was God's will for me to die, and for you to carry on the fight. I see that now."

"God's will?" Castiel scoffed. "You profaned God just before Anna killed you."

"I was wrong," Uriel said. "I admit that freely."

"No, you were right."

"Enlighten me."

"God loved us only to the extent that we intrigued him. Entertained him." Castiel shook his head. "Once we became boring, he withdrew his love. Tried to snuff us out. In the end, he was as merciless and cruel to everything weaker than him as we were. Must be where we got it from."

"Yet you're still here."

"Yes. But I don't want to spend the time I have left recapitulating everything." Castiel turned to him. "Tell the Empty to meet me in Pontiac, Illinois, at the site of Dean's grave. Tell it that our deal is over. It'll know what I mean."

Uriel nodded. He stared out the window again.

"This sounds final," Uriel said.

"For me, it will be."

"Castiel," Uriel replied, after several miles had passed. "I knew you'd be different from the last time I saw you. But I never knew how much."

"Yeah, well." Castiel blinked and paused; a sudden wave of grief and regret was threatening to overcome him, and he diverted most of his energies to holding it back. "Sometimes, I think I've hardly changed at all."

After several seconds of silence, he glanced at the passenger seat. Uriel had vanished.

"Goodbye, Uriel," Castiel said.

* * *

All the way to the end of Kansas, the radio played the good news from around the world. There was peace and reconciliation in the Levant; on the other side of the planet, Antarctic researchers reported that every major crack in the Larsen Ice Shelf had inexplicably disappeared. Art that had been thought permanently lost was showing up on the doorsteps of museums around the world. Castiel listened to it all, thinking about Jack.

At the Missouri River, Castiel fiddled with the dial, settling on an adult contemporary station that was playing Celine Dion. He returned his hand to his side and leaned against the door, scowling at the buildup of vehicles on the bridge.

There was the flapping of wings, and Castiel looked over, expecting Uriel.

"My dear, you know I hate this song."

"Balthazar," Castiel said. His voice nearly broke. "What are you doing here?"

"I should be asking you that." Balthazar scanned the car and the highway with evident disapproval. "You're driving a Honda that reeks of patchouli in one of the rectangular states, Castiel. You were never stylish, but this is truly a new low."

"I don't understand what's going on. Why is the Empty letting all of you out?"

Balthazar pulled a face. "Why, it's nice to see you too, Cassie."

"I didn't...mean it like that." As the traffic slowed to a crawl, Castiel sat back and roamed his eyes over Balthazar. "I'm happy to see you again. I just can't help but feel manipulated somehow."

"To tell you the truth, I don't know any more than you do. I was just woken up by a kick to the head and told to deliver a message to you."

"Which is?" Castiel said, after a beat.

"Well...I'm betting that if I delay giving it to you, I can stay here on Earth longer." Balthazar simpered. "And there's so much you need to fill me in on."

Castiel returned Balthazar's smile. "Time in the Empty hasn't changed you one bit."

"Of course not, darling. I live life with no regrets, always have done. The awful troll who rules over that place isn't half as clever as he thinks he is."

The traffic on the bridge unknotted, and Castiel drove over the state line. Celine Dion's voice flickered and jerked in time with the swaying of the dreamcatcher.

"How about you, Castiel?" Balthazar said, turning down the radio. "Are you still hopelessly in love with that human?"

"You know his name, Balthazar. Use it."

"That's a yes, then."

Castiel snorted. He merged into the right lane and peered at Balthazar.

"I thought you'd be angry with me," he said. "You'd have the right to be, after what I did."

"Oh, I am," Balthazar said. "But my joy at seeing you again is bigger than my anger. If we get to it—" he shrugged. "I should only be so lucky to have that much time."

"I'm sorry," Castiel blurted out. "I'm so sorry. I was so warped by my quest for power. Out of everything—what I did to you is one of my greatest regrets."

Balthazar responded with a nod. The tenseness in his body unwound almost imperceptibly.

"I thought about you," he continued. "When I was asleep in the Empty."

It was true: he had dreamt about Balthazar, even though most of his thoughts had been directed towards his life with the Winchesters and the choices he'd made in it. When it came to Dean, though, it was hard to know which memories were regrets and which were nothing less than the best that could've come from the cursed circumstances the two of them constantly found themselves in.

"Me too," Balthazar was saying. "I suppose neither of us turned out to be the brightest bulb in the end."

"But we made our own choices. That's the important thing."

Balthazar emitted a small sigh, which he did when he found the course of a conversation displeasing but didn't feel like saying so. Castiel grinned at that.

"You can feel it, can't you?"

"The sexual tension crackling between us?"

"Paradise," Castiel said flatly, rolling his eyes. "Can't you tell?"

"Oh, that. Of course." Balthazar gestured to the parking lot of a passing Dollar General store. "Though I thought it'd be more...heavenly. I expected the return of the Garden."

"It's like this—I don't know. A golden chord added to the end of every wave of energy. Almost like the days before humans, but...not quite." Castiel tilted his head. "And I think they'll be alright now, Balthazar. Without me."

"You're becoming maudlin, darling."

"My son did this, Balthazar. With some help, but—"

"Your son? You...and Dean?"

"No. Well, yes, sort of. I adopted him after his mother died. Giving birth to him." Castiel stroked his chin. "Lucifer begat him."

Balthazar soughed and fell back in his seat.

"This is too much for me to get my head around."

"I couldn't be prouder of him. We aren't our fathers, Balthazar. Sam and Dean aren't." Castiel glanced at him. "Neither are we."

"You met him?"

"I did. He disappointed me."

"Did he now?" Balthazar quirked an eyebrow. "Sorry, isn't perfection his chief attribute?"

"He's far from perfect," Castiel said. "Anyway, it doesn't matter now. What's the message you have for me?"

"Ah. Let me see if I can remember it."

"Balthazar."

"Hang on. It's—'I will meet you there.'" Balthazar pursed his lips. "I presume that means something to you?"

Castiel sighed. "So, it accepts."

"Why are you meeting it?"

"Why else would I be meeting it, Balthazar? It's my time."

"I'm not following."

"I made a deal. The life of my son for my own life. Now that the fight is over—now that there's Paradise on Earth—I have to make good on my end of the bargain."

Balthazar was quiet for a long time. They passed into the shade of clouds for a few miles, then emerged into the sun again.

"There's no other way, then?"

"All I know," Castiel said, "is that this is how it ends. Once the Empty is asleep again, all four of the primordial beings will have stepped back from the world. Jack, and Sam, and Dean—and the rest of humanity—they'll be able to live in peace."

"That's—" Balthazar faltered and looked down.

"It probably sounds crazy to you."

"That's a lovely sentiment, Castiel." Balthazar smiled. "And it only sounds a little crazy."

Castiel chuckled. He turned up the radio.

"Do you think," Castiel said, after a while. "I mean, do you think I'm doing the right thing?"

Balthazar reached over and rubbed the back of Castiel's neck. "Darling, you've always done what you've thought is right, regardless of what I think."

There was no contradicting that. Castiel leaned back into Balthazar's hand and breathed out with contentment. It had been an interminably long time since he had felt unconditional acceptance and love from another of his kind, and he wished that Balthazar could stay on Earth forever.

He only shut his eyes for a moment, but he was alone in the car when he opened them again. Castiel swallowed, tightened his hands on the steering wheel, and continued down the highway.

* * *

_Dad?_

He was in Central Illinois. It was early evening, and the air was warm and heavy with the indolent chirping of crickets. Jack's voice rang bright and clear in his mind.

_Castiel, where are you? Please tell me. We can find another way._

Castiel turned up the radio, trying to shut out Jack's voice as he had the last two times he'd prayed to him that day.

At the top of the hour, the night show, hosted by a dulcet-toned woman who spun up love songs for callers, had begun. On the lonely drives across the country to which Castiel had become accustomed since the shredding of his wings, he had become fond of her company.

_Please don't leave us, Castiel._

Castiel brushed the tears from his eyes. He steeled himself and turned up the radio again.

_"I just don't know why she walked out. She knows how much I love her."_

The host hummed empathetically.

_So, you want me to play you something that'll help you make sense of what happened._

_"Yes, ma'am."_

_I have just the song._

Castiel listened to the music; he knew all the words to this one. Jack had gone silent.

Just as he relaxed into the seat again, the flapping of wings beside him announced another interloper.

"You."

"Miss me?" Lucifer said, with a cock of his head.

"I'm imagining things."

"I'm flattered, Castiel, but I'm very much here. In the flesh."

"There's no way the Empty would let you awaken," Castiel insisted. "It'll be hell to put you down again."

"The old dog and I have a lot in common, actually."

"You both have a talent for inflicting misery on others, that's true."

"Well, you're touchy today." Lucifer patted Castiel's forearm. "Let me guess. Dean problems?"

Castiel shook him off. "Just tell me what the Empty sent you to say. I have no interest in you being here otherwise."

"You should," Lucifer mused. "I mean, I can't be the only one who sees the parallels here. The dramatic irony, you know? Personally, I always considered myself a superior writer to Metatron. That pompous blowhard should have stuck to instruction manuals."

Castiel grimaced. "Parallels between us? Don't tell me you're going to start again with how we both fell."

"Oh, no. It goes way deeper than that, pal."

Castiel didn't reply. He focused on the road, on the destination.

"Sure, we both fell; sure, the other angels hate us." Lucifer drummed his fingers into his thighs. "Not sure that's entirely a bad thing, by the way. And we both cast in our lots with demons—"

"There's hardly a comparison there."

"I don't know. You were pretty chummy with both the current ruler of Hell _and_ her immediate predecessor. Not to mention poor little Dean. He made a sexy demon, don't you think?"

"Stop," growled Castiel.

"You did manage to bring about Paradise—a watered-down version of it, but whatever. Of course, you needed my son to do it. I figure that binds us together even more."

"You were never a father to Jack."

"Speaking of fathers: what's this I hear from the Empty about you turning on dear old Dad and locking him up in a cage? I mean, that's some juicy poetic justice."

Castiel let out a long sigh.

"You know, maybe you're right, Castiel. This is beyond parallelism. It's like a student becoming the master type moment, you know? You did to God what I never managed to." Lucifer began a slow clap.

"You're as delusional as ever if you think anything you say wounds me," Castiel said. "I just had to say goodbye forever to the people I love. That's pain." He threw Lucifer a disdainful glare. "You're nothing but an ant."

"An ant who's going to the same place you are, buddy," Lucifer retorted. His eyes flared red. "You think you know what pain is? You're about to spend eternity with me."

Castiel's breath caught in his throat. He steadied the steering wheel.

"That's right. The Empty _hates_ you, pal. It's going to let me have my way with you when you get there. And not just me."

"You're lying," Castiel said.

Lucifer shrugged. "Eh, maybe I am. I do that."

"Even if you're not, it doesn't change anything. If I cared about my own comfort, I wouldn't be doing this."

"You're so gallant, Castiel. Such a good little soldier. No wonder the Winchesters love you; you're the perfect match to their nauseating savior complexes."

Castiel craned his neck to see the faded typeface of a road sign. _Pontiac, 10 miles._

"You always surprise me, Castiel. You're quite an enigma. First you steal my son; then you only look after him—not very well, if you don't mind me editorializing—for a couple years before running off and leaving him to fend for himself. Not really what I'd classify as great parenting."

"As if you'd ever understand what it means to sacrifice for others."

"Hmm. Yeah, you're right. I'm selfish." Lucifer poked Castiel's cheek with his index finger. "But so are you, big guy."

"Say whatever you want."

"You're just doing things your own way, no matter what the people you claim to 'love' think about it. You're taking away any choice they have in the matter. It's all about what _you_ want." He tapped his temple. "Great minds, am I right?"

Castiel shook his head. "We're nearly there. Either kill me or leave me, Lucifer."

"Oh, I wish I could pop you lke a balloon full of chili so badly. You should've seen your face the last time it happened." Lucifer rested his chin in one of his hands and regarded Castiel. "Good times. But no. The Empty said that if I do anything to you before it gets the chance, I won't get my crack at you on the other side."

"Lucky me," Castiel muttered.

"Come to think of it, of all the millions of lives I've taken, there's a special place in my heart for the times I killed you. Nothing personal—actually, that's a lie. But the distraught looks on the faces of those clueless pretty boys you pal around with—" Lucifer breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. "Especially Sam. Every tear that Sam Winchester sheds is a sweet, sweet nectar."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "Stop preening, Lucifer. You think I give a damn at this point?"

"So macho. Tell me, Castiel, did you learn that from your repressed, self-hating cabana boy? Mr. Daddy Issues?"

"Lucifer, there's one thing I can go to my end happy about more than anything else."

"Which is?"

"That Jack is nothing like you."

Lucifer's diabolical smile cracked and fell. His eyes flashed red again.

"Jack is kind, and patient, and generous, and trusting, and full of love. He only wants to help people and live a normal life." Castiel breathed deeply as he gripped the wheel. "And I'm giving him a chance to do that."

"Huh. Beautiful, really." Lucifer sniffed. "I'll be going now. See you soon."

Castiel ignored him.

"Oh, and you might want to check your steering. These older cars—you never know when they might throw a fit."

He was gone. With a frown, Castiel tried turning the wheel, but it was locked to the side.

"What?"

Castiel tried the brakes, but all the pedal met was air.

"Lucifer!"

With a whine and a crash, the stolen car veered off the highway and into a shallow ditch lined with reeds and kudzu. Castiel's head hit the window. Before he lost consciousness, the last things he heard were the peaceful chirping of the crickets and the love song on the radio.

* * *

_We have Emily on the line. Hi, Emily._

_"Hi, Leila."_

_What can I play for you tonight, my dear?_

_"I'd like to dedicate a song to my late husband, James. He died eleven years ago, and I still think about him every day. We were married for twenty-nine years. I wish he were here now to see all the good things happening in the world. So, if you have the song 'Tupelo Honey,' I'd love to hear it. That was our song."_

_Tupelo Honey by Van Morrison?_

_"Yes."_

_Alright, Emily, I'll play that for you and James. Have a wonderful night._

Castiel blinked, attempting to focus his eyes in the twilight. There was pain in his neck, his arm, and his ribs; he couldn't tell if the wetness along his side was water from the ditch he'd ended up in or his own blood. He groaned and unbuckled his seat belt. Somehow, the radio was still fully functional.

He made to get up, but a sharp pain in his back pulled him down again. It would take a few minutes for his grace to heal him enough for him to go anywhere.

Castiel sighed and listened to the music. There was a line about tea and china, which instantly brought him back to Dean Smith's apartment in Pittsburgh and the song he'd said he hated. Figuring that he only had a little time left to indulge in memories, Castiel closed his eyes and let the song drift over him.

It was like a hymn, almost—the sort of compositions humans had written exclusively to God for most of their history. Castiel thought that this one, crooned to the singer's love interest, had a much more worthy subject.

He opened his eyes at a tender hand on his shoulder. In that split-second, he wished with all his heart that it would be Dean.

"Anna," Castiel murmured.

"You're hurt." Anna's hand glowed. "Here."

It was strange and pure, the sensation of angelic healing. Castiel couldn't remember the last time another angel had cared enough about him to do it.

"Breathe," she said.

Castiel sighed and opened his eyes. "Thank you."

"Come on." Anna pulled open the door. "I'll help you out."

Castiel took Anna's hand, and she walked the two of them up and out of the ditch. They stood at the edge of a vast field of alfalfa. On the highway, the few cars traversing the bucolic interior of Illinois flew by, piercing through the encroaching darkness.

"Anna," Castiel repeated.

"I know. I can hardly believe I'm here, too."

"Did the Empty let you out?"

"When you didn't show up when you were supposed to, it awoke me. It told me to find you and help you on your way."

"I see." Castiel looked around. "Thank you for telling me the truth."

"You know me. I've never liked beating around the bush."

"It's good to see you," Castiel said. He beamed at her.

"I've missed you," Anna agreed. "I mean—I'd hoped I'd never see you again. Because that would mean you lived."

"Yeah, well."

"What?"

Castiel shrugged. "I don't know if I deserve to live. If you knew what I've done, Anna—"

"Stop. That's enough." She raised her eyes to the clouds on the horizon. "The world—I can tell it's different. Better."

"Peace reigns, of a sort. It's not how I imagined, honestly. It isn't perfect."

"Still, compared to before." Anna turned to him again. "You did this?"

"A few of us. Sam and Dean—"

"So, the three of you, you're still together."

"Four, now. We live together with my son, Jack. Adopted."

"That's—wow. Don't tell me, you also have a Golden Retriever and dress up for dinner on Sundays?"

Castiel tilted his head.

"Never mind." Anna furrowed her brow. "Wait, why are you meeting the Empty? I don't even understand why it's coming to Earth in the first place. It's coloring so far outside the lines that you'd think God would do something."

"Anna...let's start walking to Dean's grave. I'll explain on the way."

Castiel surveyed the fields, the county road along them, the silhouette of the forest in the distance. He jerked his chin towards the trees.

"There," Castiel said. "He was buried at the edge of those woods. I remember them."

Without waiting for a reply, he started on his way. Anna caught up with him and crossed her arms.

"The Empty only holds power over us once we've died," Anna said, with a note of dread.

"I did die. Actually, I've died several times, but the last time, God didn't resurrect me. So I went to the Empty. My son, Jack, got me out—"

"Got you out?" Anna stopped walking. "Nothing has that power."

"Jack does," Castiel said slowly. "He's a Nephilim."

"You said he was adopted."

"His father is Lucifer."

Anna let out a small breath. "Alright. Well, no wonder he has the power."

"He's just a kid," Castiel said, as they continued walking. "Just because he's a Nephilim, just because Lucifer was one of his parents—that doesn't make him evil. He doesn't deserve to die. In fact, he's why all of this happened." He gestured at the world around them.

Anna seemed to ponder this as they walked. The alfalfa field yielded to what looked like barley.

"Castiel," she said finally. "What does all this have to do with you meeting the Empty now?"

"Jack was dying. I...traded my life for his."

"I knew it."

"Any parent would do the same," Castiel insisted.

"You've always been this way, Cass." Anna looked at him with a mixture of pity and pride. "You've always led with your emotions. And you were always willing to put yourself in harm's way for others."

"Nevertheless," Castiel said. "I'm at peace with my choice. All the great cosmic battles are over. If Jack gets to live—if Dean and Sam don't have to fear the Empty coming for me at any moment—that's more important to me than my own existence. I can go to my rest happy with that outcome."

Again, Anna waited for a while before speaking. The individual trees of the forest were coming into view.

"What do they say about it?" Anna said.

"They disagree."

"They want you to live."

"It isn't their decision to make. It's mine." Castiel shook his head. "When Dean and I were saying goodbye this morning, he tried everything to get me to stay. Saying he needed me, that his life wouldn't be complete without me around, that he'd do whatever it took to stop me."

Anna laughed. "Romantic, in a way. Intense, controlling, blatantly selfish—still, romantic."

"You're teasing me," Castiel observed. "I'm not embarrassed to say I love Dean, but this is my decision, not his."

"You and Dean?" Anna's pace slowed. "Ah. No wonder you chose the Winchesters over Heaven back then."

"It was more complicated than that. As for Dean and me, that's been nothing _but_ complicated since we met."

They were at the edge of the woods now. Castiel spotted, further down the road, the gas station with the two pumps and the blown-out windows.

"Do you want to know what I think?"

He smirked. "You've never given me a choice in the matter before."

"I think you should value yourself more. Not just the worth of your life, Castiel—everything about you."

"I don't get your meaning."

"It sounds to me like you think your only value to the people you love is your ability to solve their problems." The night breeze lifted and pulled at Anna's hair, and she pulled her jacket shut against it. "That isn't it at all. You're not a tool; that's angel programming bullshit that I'd hoped you'd be done with by now. You're a living being with a family, a child, a partner—" Anna glanced at him. "Despite whatever mistakes you made along the way, you brought peace and hope to the world. I don't get how someone who's accomplished so much still values himself so little."

Anna stopped walking. They were standing beside the pumps of the gas station, which, with their layers of rust and dirt, looked like they hadn't been used in years.

"You can do what I never got the chance to," Anna said, quieter now. "Live a normal, happy, peaceful life on Earth."

"You're guilting me," Castiel protested.

"It's not guilt. It's the truth."

Castiel pressed his lips together. He and Dean had emerged from Hell only a few hundred meters from here. He turned his eyes to where the air still vibrated with the energy of the event. The aftershock was weak but distinct, and he was sure that Anna felt its proximity just as he did.

"Do you remember the last time we talked in Heaven?" Anna said.

"You know angels don't forget things, Anna."

"Sorry. Force of human habit." She smiled. "I said that I hoped you'd understand, someday, why I was doing what I did."

"Yes."

"I know it's foolish, but I can't help feeling proud of how far you've come. It's like my little brother finally grew up."

"But—" Castiel scowled. "You just finished giving me a lecture about how stupid I'm being."

Anna shrugged. "I'll always do that. Doesn't mean I'm not proud of you all the same."

"I see." Castiel cleared his throat. "It means a lot to me that you'd say that. Truly."

Anna peered into his eyes. After a while, Castiel looked down.

"You haven't changed your mind, though."

"No," Castiel said. "I appreciate everything you've said, but this is the best way for me to protect my family. I love them too much to let anything happen to them."

"That's the funny thing about families," Anna said. "I bet they feel the same about you."

"Perhaps."

"Maybe they love you more than you love yourself." She stepped forward and placed her hand over Castiel's heart. "But they shouldn't have to love you this much more."

"Anna—"

Castiel was cut off by Anna embracing him. He hugged her back, gingerly at first, then with all the lost affection of the last thirty years.

"Think about what I said."

"I will," Castiel replied. He closed his eyes and pressed his chin to the crown of her head. "Thank you."

A moment passed, and Castiel only held air. He opened his eyes, looked up at the moon, and breathed in the cool humidity of the evening.

"I miss you," he said.

* * *

The access road led east, between the forest and the fields, and Castiel followed it. Behind him, the gas station slipped into the shade of his memory. The moonlight was bright enough to see by, but he would have known the way even if the night had been tar-black.

Where the first warping of the trunks of the survivors began, a familiar shadow stood with its back to him. It looked to the side when Castiel neared, and its profile was his own.

"You're finally here," Jimmy said.

"I crashed." Castiel eyed him. "How long have you been waiting?"

"Hours. It's not like I have anything else to do. You're my last project before I go back to sleep again."

Castiel cleared his throat. "You shouldn't be wearing his face. He was a good man; he's in Heaven now. He has nothing to do with you."

Jimmy laughed raucously. He leaned in close and sniffed Castiel's neck.

"You're one to talk. You've been schlepping around this body for how long?"

Castiel didn't flinch. He stared into the emptiness of Jimmy's eyes.

"Shall we walk?" Jimmy suggested.

They proceeded through the bent and mangled trees. The logs and stumps still lay in the exact spiral in which they had fallen on that morning in September, frozen in time by the eruption of celestial energy, the reversal of fate.

"Why did you want to meet here?" Jimmy said, once they were at the empty grave. He fondled the tip of the crooked cross, which improbably stood in a feat of sheer will.

"It's where it all started." Castiel blinked at the overturned earth. "It should be where it ends."

Jimmy let out a puff of breath.

"What?"

"I just don't understand you. You're only an angel, Castiel. An automaton; a slave. But you say the foolish and fanciful things humans do, and you seem to really believe them."

Castiel glanced over his shoulder at him. "Angels are more than that."

"Your kind destroyed themselves," Jimmy scolded. "I have to say, though, that you played no small role in their annihilation. You should hear the wails and lamentations about you in my realm."

"Enough taunting," Castiel said. "I came here to hold up my end of our bargain, not to listen to you rant."

"This is just the beginning." Jimmy grinned; he kicked the soil from Dean's grave onto Castiel's shoes. "I have big plans for you."

"I feel no fear. I know that the people I love will be fine. Nothing else matters."

"Ah. You speak of Paradise."

Castiel nodded.

"The reality is a little underwhelming, isn't it? Compared to how it's sold to the humans, this is small potatoes. A few gorillas coming back is hardly the dead rising from their graves to sit with God for eternity."

"Give it time," Castiel said, though his voice betrayed his doubts.

"It's not like the monsters are gone. Or even all the angels and demons." Jimmy tilted his head in mock sympathy. "Without you to protect them, your favorite pets could perish to one of them tomorrow."

"You hounding me poses far more of a threat to them. Besides...."

"Go on."

"I'm not as I once was," Castiel said, hanging his head. "You know that. Returning here, feeling the air crackle with power, just drives it home to me."

Jimmy looked around at the trees. He didn't say anything, so Castiel continued.

"Once, I was mighty. Not only that, I thought I could solve all the world's problems. Earth, Heaven, Hell—I thought I could fix it all. I couldn't even fix myself."

Jimmy sneered. He licked his lips.

"What use do Jack and Sam and Dean have for a seraph with broken wings?" Castiel righted the cross, pointing it heavenward again. "I'm a shadow of what I used to be."

For a long time, there was only an unnatural silence. Even the crickets were absent from this place, kept away by some primordial instinct they heeded upon encountering the razed earth.

"I'll tell you something, Castiel, before we go."

"Very well."

"What you lack is in your mind. At some point your self-doubt became so incessant and strong that you stopped questioning it." Jimmy teleported behind Castiel and dragged his fingers down his back.

"Unhand me," Castiel demanded.

"Do you know what happens to all who cross over into my domain? Their very essence is extinguished; nothing remains. It's supposed to be irreversible. But because of your obnoxious Nephilim, I had to recreate you from the dust of the universe." Jimmy patted his shoulders. "All of you."

Castiel swallowed. "What are you saying?"

"You, of anyone, should know. You did the same for Dean."

Castiel looked up at the apex of the sky. The light of distant stars sparkled over the spot where he'd risen up with Dean in his arms, kissing his forehead and singing of their salvation.

"Take one last flight if you like," Jimmy said. "It'd be a shame to let my hard work go to waste."

Castiel shed a tear and brushed it away just as quickly.

"I won't perform for you."

"Up to you." Jimmy returned to the other side of the grave and extended his hand. "Shall we?"

Castiel peered into the eyes of the Empty. He hesitated, and Jimmy watched him impassively.

"Take me," Castiel said, hovering his hand over Jimmy's.

The Empty sighed, and Castiel thought he heard the unmistakable sound of wings as its fingers touched his.

"Peace at last."


	19. 20 Years from Now

_Reports of new populations of critically endangered species have streamed in from around the world. Among them are both species of gorilla—_

Dean pulled off his headphones as soon as he heard the scraping of the front door and the voiceless footfalls on the staircase. He lay his pen down in the spine of the medieval summoning text to save his place, then walked to the library’s threshold.

"What the hell took you so long?"

Sam pinched his brow. "Dean, we were more than an hour down the highway when you called. What's this about, anyway?"

"It's Cass." Dean flicked his eyes to Jack, though only for a moment. "He's gone."

"Gone?" Jack echoed.

"What do you mean, Cass is gone?"

"I mean he's gone, Sam! He left, and if we don't find a way to stop him, he's never coming back!"

Sam dropped his backpack beside the doorway to the corridor and approached Dean. Realization dawned over Jack's features by degrees, and Dean felt his resentment towards him building in his bowels, in his blood.

"Alright, just—start from the beginning. What happened?"

"He's going to the Empty," Jack said quietly, descending from the bottom step. Sam turned around to face him. "Isn't he?"

Dean nodded.

"You're talking about his deal?" Sam pressed his hands to his hips. "Wait, what did you mean, 'if we don't find a way to stop him?' Was the Empty here?"

"Cass went to meet it," Dean said. "He thinks he's protecting us by keeping us out of everything."

"But the Empty will just kill him," Sam said. "Cass can't take that thing on by himself."

Dean lowered his head. "He isn't 'taking it on,' Sam."

The room was silent for a few seconds. Dean stared down at the hard stone, willing himself to stoicism.

"He's sacrificing himself," Jack said. "For us?"

Without looking up, Dean nodded again.

"No," Sam said. "No, he can't be. Not without saying goodbye. Not without even giving us the chance to try—"

"He told me to my face, Sammy," Dean interrupted. "He said we'd only put ourselves in danger. That the Empty can't be beaten."

"It's because he's doing it for me," Jack said.

Dean clenched his jaw at the quiet conviction in Jack's voice. He chose not to respond, instead returning to his chair and dropping a stack of tomes onto the other side of the table with a thwack.

"We have to figure out a way to find him," Dean said, once Sam had followed him in.

"Tracking app? I don't think he ever deleted it."

Dean held up Castiel's phone. "Left it in my desk drawer."

"Okay, then—scan the local police? He probably had to steal a car."

"Don't you think I've thought of that already?" Dean snapped.

"Sorry." Sam sat down across from Dean and opened his laptop. "Just trying to be helpful."

"You want to be helpful? I've pulled all the stuff on magic and angels. Get started on looking for a spell that can locate him. You're better at all that witchy crap than I am, anyway."

Sam pondered the tower of books. "Okay. I mean, I'm not sure we'll be able to find one that works. He's warded and, since he doesn't have any wings, he can't be summoned."

"Sam."

"Okay. Okay, I'll try."

Dean handed Sam the book he'd been searching and returned his attention to the regional police filings. There were still no reports of stolen vehicles in the surrounding counties, but since Castiel had only been gone for an hour and a half, that wasn't surprising.

"Dean?"

He looked up at Jack, who was standing, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides, at the end of the table.

"Can I do something?"

"No," Dean said brusquely. He picked up one of the angel manuscripts and blew the dust from its cover.

"Please," Jack said. "I want to help."

"Here, Jack," Sam said, after several seconds of Dean ignoring him. "You can help me look for a spell. Anything related to scrying, divination—"

"Does he even know what that looks like?"

Sam pushed a book into Jack's hands and gave Dean a look of warning. Jack sat down next to Sam and began leafing through the pages. His hands shook.

"We'll find him," Sam said to Jack, with a tight smile and a squeeze of his shoulder. "We will."

"I just...don't understand. Why would he leave without telling me?"

"Well, it's not like you didn't know this was coming," Dean said. "You've known longer than Sam and me. You knew about the deal he made, and you kept it a secret from us for over a year!"

"Dean, that isn't what he meant."

"He made me promise not to tell you," Jack protested. "He said you'd worry too much."

Dean rolled his eyes and pounded the key to refresh the police feeds. "Yeah, whatever."

"I'm sorry," Jack said. "This is all my fault."

"He's just upset," Sam said quietly. "It's not your fault."

"No, you know what?" Dean shut his laptop with a bang and stood up. "You're right, I am upset. I'm upset because he's the reason for all of this. Are you forgetting how many people have died because of him?"

"Dean," Sam said.

"No, Sam. I'm saying this. You—" Dean pointed at Jack, who recoiled in fear. "I keep losing the people I care about because of you. First my mom, now Cass? When's it finally going to be enough for you?"

"I didn't want any of—"

"You know, actually? You're right. This _is_ all your fault. All of it. And you know what else? I'm not even sure that you didn't brainwash Cass into sacrificing himself to save you!"

Sam leapt up. "Dean, that's enough!"

Jack twisted out of his chair and ran from the library. His footfalls echoed from the hallway as Dean met Sam's glare with defiance.

"I know you're hurting," Sam said. "But for all he knows, he's just lost his dad."

"I was telling him the truth."

"No, you weren't. You were being cruel. Because you're scared that we won't see Cass again."

"The world's cruel, Sam." Dean walked to the cellarette and lifted the lid of the crystal decanter. "The sooner the kid realizes that, the better off he'll be."

"Maybe, yeah." Sam's chair squeaked with the sound of him sitting down again. "Maybe it is. But your family shouldn't be."

Dean peered down into the glassy caramel of the whiskey and shook his head.

"We'll find him," Sam said, his voice soft again. "No matter what, Cass always comes back to you."

Dean blinked and drew in an irregular breath. He didn't care about the implication in Sam's words. To contradict him now seemed futile, frivolous: the kind of thing he would have been impelled to do in Chuck's retelling of his life, rather than what he felt in the innermost recesses of his heart.

He raised the whiskey to his lips and drank.

* * *

"I made some lunch." Sam slid a tray of sandwiches and glasses of water between their laptops.

"Thanks." On a hunch that Castiel had driven in that direction, Dean brought up the eastern Colorado police databases in a new window. "Not hungry, though."

"You have to eat, Dean." Sam returned to his chair and picked up one of the plates. "Find anything?"

"Zilch. You?"

"Um," Sam said, through a mouthful of bread. "I found a spell that drains the vitality of a target. Might slow him down, give us more time? We'd need to find some of his hair, though."

"I don't know. We don't know where he went, who he might run into."

"Too risky?"

"We'll keep it in our back pocket. Keep looking."

"On it. I've got Jack looking through some of the books too. He's in the kitchen. Eating, uh, by himself." Sam took another bite.

"And?"

"And nothing. I'm just telling you that's what he's doing."

"Right. Okay."

Sam put down his plate and wiped his hands. "I mean, you should apologize to him—"

"Sam."

"I can't make you, Dean. But you were pretty over the line with him earlier."

"What kind of candy-ass sandwich is this?" Dean said, as he lifted the top slice. "Where's the meat?"

Sam sighed. "Fine. It's up to you. If you want my advice, though—"

"I don't."

"Think about what Cass would want you to do."

"No." Dean dug his nails into his chair's armrests. "Don't you dare bring Cass into this, Sam. Don't talk about him like he's—like...."

"You're right. I shouldn't have phrased it that way." Sam bit his lip, hefted the nearest book. "Honestly, Dean, I kind of feel like we're on a wild goose chase right now. If there were a spell in any of these to track Cass, we would've found it before now."

"With all the times he's just up and left us, you mean."

"Yeah. I think we should try to reset the way we're thinking about it. There must be something else, something we haven't thought about."

"Like?"

"Like something he said, maybe. I mean, what happened after we left? He seemed completely normal last night. This morning, even."

"I don't know, Sam. A lot happened."

"Then give me the summary."

Dean shifted in his seat, fixed his eyes on his screen. "After you went to bed, Cass and I watched a movie, had a couple drinks."

"Which movie?"

"Not important. Anyway—"

"How do you know it's not important?"

"It was—" Dean licked his lips. " _City of Angels_."

"Wait, what?"

"It was his turn to choose, and I didn't feel like fighting him over it, alright?"

"That's the one with the—"

"Yeah, yeah. Meg Ryan, the nineties, the song."

"What did, uh—" Sam ran his hand through his hair and smirked. "What'd Cass think of it?"

"No idea," Dean said flatly. "I fell asleep about fifteen minutes into it."

"Sure."

"Anyway," Dean said, ignoring him. "After that, Cass walked me to my room. He asked me if I trusted him, said I needed to know something. So I got into bed and—"

"Hang on. Is this going where I think it's going?"

"If it were, why the hell would I ever tell you? Would that be a normal thing to do?"

"Dean, there's nothing _abnormal_ about—"

"That's not what I meant," Dean said. "Focus on the actual problem in front of us, Sam, not your dumb comments about me and Cass."

"Okay." Sam waved his hand. "What next?"

"Cass transferred all these—these memories into my head. From back when we first met. Memories of mine he'd taken. Some of his, too."

"He did what?"

"Yeah, I know."

"Why'd he take them in the first place?"

"I don't know, Sam. Why does Cass do anything?"

"Didn't he give you an explanation?"

Dean refreshed the police feeds again before answering. "He said he did it because he thought it was what I wanted. We had a whole argument about it in the kitchen before you got there."

"So, that's what that was." Sam peered at him. "Why would he think you wanted that?"

"Because back then, he was even more clueless about humans than he is now," Dean said. "After you guys left, he told me about his whole moronic plan to meet the Empty. I tried to talk some sense into him, but he wouldn't listen. Then he left, and that was it. I called you a few minutes after that."

"You just let him walk out?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I mean, it's not like he can fly anymore. You could have stopped him."

"How, Sam? Tying him down? The dude's an angel; he's stronger than me."

"I was thinking more along the lines of talking to him."

"You're a genius, Sam. Why didn't I think of that?" Dean sat forward and glowered over the rim of the laptop screen. "Do me a favor. Keep your advice on how I deal with Cass to yourself and focus on something you're actually good at. Find a spell."

"I'm trying, Dean. But like I said, we might have to face the possibility that there just isn't a spell for this."

"No. No, there's always something. Maybe if we summon Rowena—"

"If Rowena knew of a spell that worked, we would've gotten it from her way before now. Look, I'm not saying we abandon Cass; I'm saying we approach this differently."

"Meaning?"

"Use deduction? That's why I was asking you what the two of you talked about. Like, remember the time you were going to say yes to Michael, and I had to figure out where you were going so Cass and I could bring you back to Bobby's? I didn't use a spell for that; I just knew where you'd visit on your last day on Earth. If we can figure that out for Cass, we'll know where to look for him."

Dean considered this. "Claire?"

"I thought of that too, but I doubt it. I just got a text from her saying she hasn't heard from him. Neither has Jody."

"Well, he might not call ahead."

"I don't know." Sam tapped his pen against the table. "I was thinking more along the lines of the sandbox."

"Heaven?"

"Most of the time when he's gone missing in the past, he's been doing something with the angels. And they've been his family for way longer than us. Maybe he'd want to see them before...you know."

"Who's even left up there? Michael? He and Cass aren't exactly fishing buddies."

"Can you think of anything else?"

Dean sat back and looked at Castiel's phone. He had removed it from his top drawer and brought it to the library along with his laptop, which, looking back on it, he'd only done to keep a piece of Castiel nearby—a rock to grab hold to as he spun apart. Now, though, it gave him an idea.

"Meet me in the kitchen in two minutes," Dean said, springing up. "Make sure Jack is there, too."

* * *

Dean took a deep breath before he crossed into the galley. Sam and Jack looked up at him from the table, then down at the two envelopes dangling from his left hand.

"Cass, uh." Dean cleared his throat. "Cass left these for you guys. To say goodbye, I guess. He said to wait for twenty-four hours before giving them to you, but I thought they might have a lead in them. For where he's heading, I mean."

"Twenty-four hours?" Sam said.

"Yeah. That's partly why I think he's still out there, Sam. He wouldn't have asked for that much time if he didn't think he needed it."

"Definitely worth a try." Sam turned to Jack. "Jack, are you okay with opening yours?"

"I, um—"

"Why don't you read through yours first, Sammy," Dean said. He crossed the kitchen and held out Sam's letter. "That way, if we pick up something that could be a trail, we won't have to traumatize the kid."

"Alright." Sam tore at the envelope, pulled out a single sheet of unlined paper. He smoothed it into the tabletop and began reading.

"'Dear Sam,'" Sam said. "'If you're reading this, then Dean has told you of my plan. Knowing him, he'll try to stop me. He probably hasn't even waited for a day to pass before giving this to you, as I requested.'"

Dean straddled the stool at the end of the table. "What can I say, the dude knows me."

"'I hope that you can understand why I'm doing this. You've always been better at seeing other people's points of view than Dean, at treating them with empathy and compassion. Even when it isn't easy. That's one of the things I admired about you from the start.'"

Sam paused; he looked up at the ceiling and sniffed. Dean snuck a furtive glance at Jack, who sat with his hands in his lap and his head bowed over the unopened letter in front of him.

"'I want to thank you for being my friend. There are many things I learned from you about the world, about humanity, that I would never have internalized if I'd only had Dean. Things like the value of talking openly about my feelings, or the fact that we're defined by what we do, not what we are. And then there's the uniquely satisfying texture of a bean burger.'"

Sam laughed and choked on the last two words. He dabbed his sleeve on his eyes and brushed the hair away from his face.

"'I know I don't have to ask you to take care of Dean. My absence will hurt him, but I hope that, with time, he'll find peace. As for Jack, please continue to guide him. Despite all his power, he's still a child. I can only wish that, even after everything he's been through, he'll grow up to be as patient and kind a man as you. Your Friend, Castiel.'"

Sam folded up the letter and, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, let out a long, breathy sob. After a moment's hesitation, Dean patted his shoulder gingerly. From the way that Sam didn't move into the touch, Dean knew that he was providing little succor; yet to give anything more posed the danger of his own dam breaking. He was barely holding together as it was.

"Maybe—" Sam looked up, his eyes still wet and bloodshot through his hair. "Jack, maybe you shouldn't read yours now. If you don't want to do it, you don't have to."

"No," Jack said. "I want to."

"Just—take your time," Sam said. "It's okay."

Jack tore open the envelope's seam slowly. Once he had the letter in his hands, he waited for Sam to nod to him before beginning.

"'Dear Jack, I love you. I want to write that before I write anything else, because that's the most important thing. You might be upset right now, even angry with me, and you have a right to be. But I made my deal with the Empty because I love you and because it's my job to take care of you. You must always remember that. Don't ever blame yourself.'"

Jack paused and met Dean's eyes; Dean turned away and shook his head.

"'The second thing I want you to always remember is that I'm proud of you. You have a heart that's gentle and innocent and big enough for the entire world. You saved us all—everything that is, everything that will come to be—without ever thinking of yourself. I'm humbled that you chose me to be your father, and I hope that you feel you made the right decision, even if we didn't get all the time together that either of us wanted.'"

Jack stopped for what looked like a breath, but it turned into a longer pause. Sam moved to the other side of the table, sat down on the bench beside him, and rubbed his back.

"'I—I want you to always remember who your mother was. And if you ever get the chance to visit her again, I'm sure she'd love to hear about everything you've done. If you do see her, tell her that I kept my promise.'"

Dean swiveled on the stool to face the basin and mirror in the corner, squinting away the tears in his eyes. If Sam thought he was just being an asshole—turning his back on Jack, whom he'd blamed earlier for Castiel's sacrifice—he didn't care. He couldn't feel blame or anger anymore. All he felt was the future ache; the hissing white noise that never ceased; the nightly unanswered prayer; the door at the top of the stairs that, now closed, would never be pushed open again. Now, as it had been all his life, he only had room in his heart for grief.

"'I know the world will be safe with you looking after it,'" Jack was saying. "'And please watch over Sam and Dean, even if they tell you not to. I know that Dean can be difficult sometimes, and sometimes you'll have to stand up to him. But, if you can, don't give up on him. I hope that, eventually, my absence will bring the two of you closer together.'"

Jack paused here, perhaps to give Dean the opportunity to react. Dean didn't turn around. After some soothing words from Sam, Jack carried on.

"'Jack, when you came into my life, you completed me in a way that I never would have thought possible. Thank you for that. Go out into the beautiful world you helped to bring about, and do it fearlessly. I love you always. Your Father, Castiel.'"

Maybe Jack cried out; maybe he slumped into Sam's arms, letting Castiel's words drift to the floor at the corner of the table. Dean thought he heard and saw all of this, somewhere on the blurred periphery, as he fled the kitchen and turned sharply down the hallway, seeking the refuge of his own room. But he couldn't be sure.

* * *

"White 2005 Honda Accord, last seen six hours ago," Dean murmured. He hovered his fingers over the touchpad, uncertain, before standing up in the near silence and walking to the record player. The last track had just finished.

He flipped over Bob Seger's _Seven_ , set it playing again, and returned to his laptop to pick through more results from his latest trawl through the police reports.

"Scandia," he said, double-checking his map. "Could be something."

He said it mostly to allay his doubts. In the past, they'd always found a solution to whatever problem they were facing at the last minute—a stray bit of lore; an unexpected appearance by one of their allies. But Chuck wasn't writing their story anymore. It was only them, and they were an angel down.

Dean lifted the half-empty glass beside his keyboard, but put it down without taking a sip. The dark screen of Castiel's phone in his top drawer had caught his eye.

_Every time I think you're finally being straight up with me, I find out there's more you're hiding. Every time._

In an almost involuntary reaction to the pain, Dean sat back and shut his eyes. _If I'd known_ , he thought. _If I'd known he was leaving, I wouldn't have pushed him away like that._

It was delusive; he knew that. In the twelve years they'd spent together, that had never been true. His anger always prevailed, no matter how many times he lay awake at night, wishing he could change; no matter how many times he sat alone, here or behind the wheel of the Impala, regretting the things he'd said and left unsaid. Dean's rage was like a hellhound: bloodthirsty, insatiable, invisible until it was too late. It dragged him around by the lead, and all he could do was deal with the aftermath.

After the things he'd said in Purgatory, it had really felt like something had changed. He found himself praising Castiel more without thinking about it, even for things as simple as remembering his favorite flavor of plastic-wrapped pie from the mini-mart in Smith Center. Instead of a curt nod when they met in the hallway, he'd smile at him and rub between his shoulder blades and pull him along to where he was going. He was even starting to go in for silly gestures like saying 'please' and 'thank you' if Castiel offered to grab him something from the kitchen. When he was present for this, Sam would grin at Dean as soon as Castiel turned his back, then return his gaze to his computer screen, shaking his head so minutely that Dean couldn't call him out on it.

Dean rose from his desk, paced for most of the second track, tipped and fell into his still-unmade bed. For the first time in a long while, the sheets were mussed on the side he didn't sleep on. Dean curled, resting his head on the spot where Castiel had sat with him through the night, and closed his eyes. Bob had just launched into "20 Years from Now."

He told himself that he wasn't giving up. He just needed a break, even if it only lasted for one song. Even if, by resting his body and letting his mind roam free, he only invited in more pain.

_We don't have to only have today, Cass. We could have tomorrow, and the next day—_

Dean was proud of his copy of _Seven_. It had already been out of print for years when he discovered it at a garage sale in Carson City, back when it was just him and his father hunting. That morning, after he'd thrown his records across the floor, it had been on top of the stack of three that Castiel had retrieved from underneath his bed and handed to him.

Castiel loved him; that was why he had to leave. It was impossible to express a more succinct distillation of who Castiel was. Dean could seethe and yell, threaten and cajole; he could throw things and shed real tears; he could beg. None of it mattered.

 _Now we sit here in the evening / And listen to the crickets sing_ , Bob sang. _And we'll be here twenty years from now / And we'll hear the crickets sing._

Dean covered his ear with his wrist, gripped the crown of his head. None of it mattered.

He only realized someone had been knocking when his door opened and Sam called his name from the foot of the bed.

"Sorry," Sam said. "Were you sleeping?"

"No." Dean rubbed his face in his armpit as he sat up. "Just...."

"Thinking?"

"Yeah, sort of. You find anything yet?"

"Not exactly." Sam's posture stiffened; he walked back to the door and shut it carefully. "Dean, let's talk."

"Uh. Okay, I guess."

Dean walked to the corner table and turned off his music. He peeked over his shoulder at Sam, who was standing with crossed arms, his hair shadowing his profile.

"Alright if I sit?"

"Be my guest."

Sam sat near the corner of the bed, and Dean settled a couple feet away. They faced the darkest wall of the already dimly-lit room. The shadows, huge and tensile with unvoiced meaning, watched them. He supposed they always had.

"Earlier, in the library," Sam began. "You glossed over some stuff, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah. Like I told you, we only had time for the important parts."

"Right."

"What?"

"And then with the letters," Sam said, ignoring Dean's challenge. "Making us read them."

"I didn't make anyone do anything."

Sam breathed. "Why is everything always a confrontation with you, Dean?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm your brother," Sam said, and he looked at him for the first time since he'd come in. "I'm not attacking you."

"Alright, now I'm really confused. Just say what you freaking mean, Sammy. Stop beating around the bush."

"Okay." Sam turned to him with a fight in his eyes that Dean had only ever seen him aim at their father. "You're right, we don't have time for this. There isn't a fucking spell, Dean. And you know that. And Chuck isn't just going to drop the solution into our lap at the eleventh hour this time. So if you want to save Cass, you're going to have to be honest with me. With yourself."

All Dean could do was stare in stunned silence, so Sam continued.

"Maybe you had good intentions when you had us read what Cass wrote, Dean. But you and I both know that if there's any way to find him—any clue to where he is or how we get to him—that's something you have. Not me, not Jack. So you need to quit feeling sorry for yourself, and you need to dig deep, and you need to figure out what that is!"

"What—" Dean gripped the edge of the memory foam. "What the hell do you want me to say?"

"Dean, Cass waited for it to just be the two of you before he left. He wanted to talk to you alone. Maybe he was—I don't know, maybe he was looking for you to give him a reason to stay. Or maybe you said something that pushed him away."

"You're blaming me? You're actually putting this on me?" Dean snapped upright and pointed at the door. "Get the hell out of here, Sam."

Sam shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean. Not until we get somewhere. Sit down."

Dean dropped his hand, but didn't budge. Given the state he was in, he knew he couldn't win an argument against Sam, but he was still too stubborn to yield. The hellhound was tenacious.

"Do you want to get Cass back?"

"You know I do."

"Then sit down."

Defeated, Dean sank back onto the mattress. He leaned against the headboard and stared down at his hands.

"What actually happened this morning, Dean?"

"It was like I said. Cass did the memory thing, and when I woke up, we talked about it."

"You talked?"

"Well, first I was pissed at him, but I had the right to be. The dude took nine months of my memories of him and didn't think I had a right to know until his last day on Earth. That's pretty dickish."

Sam canted his head. "So, you guys argued."

"Yeah. Just about—you know, all sorts of stuff. We have a history."

"I'm guessing you probably brought up all the mistakes he's ever made," Sam said. The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.

"Cass is a big boy," Dean said. "He can defend himself."

"Yeah," Sam replied, though his tone sounded nothing like agreement. "What next?"

"Uh." Dean hesitated.

"Dean. Come on."

"He—he said that he loved me."

Sam nodded. "Did you say it back?"

"No," Dean admitted. "Wait, you didn't even ask me whether I...do."

"Of course not, Dean." Sam furrowed his brow in annoyance. "Stop wasting time."

"Hang on. How long have you known?"

"For sure? When I caught you making him that mixtape, definitely."

"Okay, you didn't 'catch' me. That makes it sound like a crime."

"To be honest, though, I should have known way earlier. Like when he died for the third time and you carried his coat around with us everywhere for months."

"I told you to forget I ever did that."

"Yeah, right." Sam pursed his lips. "I don't know, Dean. It's the kind of thing that's seemed so obvious for so long that there wasn't any point in bringing it up."

Dean shifted on the bed. "Really?"

"You always get a little rattled whenever anyone brings up Cass. And besides, it's none of my business. I figured you'd tell me when I needed to know."

"Except you kind of just...forced it out of me."

"That's because we don't have time, Dean. We need to find any lead we can that'll take us to Cass. Which brings me back to: once you knew it might be the last time you'd ever see him, why didn't you tell him how you feel?"

Dean groaned. "Quit the Lifetime, will you?"

"Why didn't you tell him, Dean?"

He threw his hands up in exasperation. "Have you met me?"

Even though it looked like he was struggling not to, Sam smiled at that. Dean snorted and turned away. The entire conversation was absurd.

"This is good, Dean," Sam said. "I feel like this is the most open you've been with me in a long, long time."

"How is this helping us find Cass?" Dean barked.

"Well, maybe if you pray to him, and you're totally, one-hundred percent honest; no excuses, no anger—if he hears you admit that you love him, maybe he might turn around."

"God, Sammy. You're such a freaking girl. Did you lift that straight from Taylor Swift?"

"Why not try, Dean? Because you're too proud? Because you don't want anyone to think you're gay or bi or whatever? Who fucking cares at this point?"

"I'm not—" Dean pressed his lips together. "Cass made his decision. I tried everything I could think of to change his mind, and he turned me down flat. So we just have to find him and stop him. The power of true love is not going to save the day. Christ on a bicycle."

Dean heaved himself from the bed and walked to his laptop. He brought up the law enforcement databases. Sam sat motionless, and it was a while before he spoke again.

"If you can honestly say that you're fine with never seeing Cass again, if you honestly think the grief and regret won't tear you apart when he's gone forever, then fine. Go ahead, be a 'real man.' Be stubborn. Why be happy, right? Dad wasn't."

Dean flinched at the mention of their father.

"I'm not Dad," Dean said, over his shoulder.

"No," Sam said. "No, you aren't. But the times you were most like him? Those were the times you thought you'd lost Cass."

Dean turned back to his screen. He tapped down the list of intersection camera feeds, his fingers twitching uselessly.

"And another thing, Dean," Sam said, standing now. "If Cass really is gone for good, I'm going to make sure Jack has a better childhood than we did. He deserves that. And if you're going to make his life miserable because you lost Cass, if you're going to blame him for something that isn't his fault, then you're not going to be a part of it."

Dean hung his head and shut his eyes. He simply didn't have any fight left in him to argue with Sam.

"You done?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Yeah, I'm done."

Dean felt him looming behind him. He looked up in time to see Sam snatch up his whiskey glass.

"Going to look for a spell, I guess," Sam said, as he opened Dean's door. "Who knows, right?"

Dean listened to Sam's footsteps in the corridor until he couldn't hear them any longer. He dragged his knuckle under both eyes, then rose up and made his way to Jack's room.

* * *

He had been dithering in the hallway for several minutes—raising his hand to Jack's door, slouching back to his own bedroom, returning with fresh determination that evaporated just as quickly as it had come on—when he heard him talking. Dean pushed his ear to the wood to hear.

"We can find another way. Please don't leave us, Castiel."

There was a long pause, then Jack's voice again, louder, more emotive.

"You never gave up on me, even when everyone else did. And I'm never giving up on you. That's what family means."

Dean shook his head. His words in the library earlier tasted like ash in his mouth. Finally, he knocked.

"Dean," Jack said. He was kneeling at the side of his bed; Castiel's letter to him was lying on the blanket, beside his hands, fluttering in the whirr of the ventilation fan. His eyes, red and puffy, regarded Dean in fear.

"Hey, Jack." Dean left the door ajar behind him. "I heard you outside. Praying, I mean."

"I know it's my fault he's gone," Jack blurted out. "But I'm trying to bring him back."

Dean sighed. "No, Jack. It's not your fault."

"It is. All I've done since I came into this world is make your life worse. If it weren't for me, he'd be here right now."

"If it weren't for you, none of us would be here right now." Dean took a step towards him, and Jack watched him warily. "Jack, I need to apologize."

Jack rubbed his face with the sleeve of his jacket. "It's okay, Dean."

"It's not okay." He squatted on his haunches by the corner of the bed. "Can I sit down?"

Jack nodded, and they both leaned against the bedframe. Jack held Castiel's letter in his hands, rubbing one of the margins with his thumb.

"I was out of line before," Dean began. "Cass had just walked out, and when you and Sam got back, the pain from that was still raw. It all happened so quickly, and I—I was scared that I'd lost him forever. All I wanted was someone to blame, because then I'd maybe feel like I had some control again. So I lashed out at you."

"I don't get it." Jack looked at him. "Why would that make you feel like you had more control?"

"It's just how I am. Not always—" Dean glanced away, to the corner of the room. "I wasn't always like this. But I keep losing people. And it's just one bad thing after another. Sometimes...maybe I shouldn't say this, but sometimes I think it's just not worth it anymore."

Jack was silent, and when Dean turned back to him, he was frowning over these words.

"The fear I feel? A lot of the time, it seems like it's the only thing I _can_ feel anymore. And when that fear turns into anger, it's as if, for a little while, I can stop being afraid."

"So, you're angry because you're scared?"

"I don't want to be. But the worse things get, the harder it is for me to stop. Losing Cass...." Dean trailed off.

Jack gazed down at Castiel's letter. "Like when I was born."

"I—I told him that I'd try to change. Not in those words, but I think he knew what I meant. And now I might never get the chance."

They didn't talk for a long time. Dean stared at the slanted light on Jack's dresser, wondering sometimes whether he should say more, deciding each time that words were treacherous things. The fan stalled for a few seconds, and when it resumed, Jack spoke.

"I've been praying to him all day. The first time was after—when I ran out of the library. I keep thinking that, if I tell him how much I love him, he might change his mind."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Maybe. I mean, you've got to keep trying."

"You don't think he will."

"The thing about Cass is, he's always been the guy who leaps on a live grenade to protect the people he cares about. For me, for Sam, for you—maybe he picked it up from Sam and me; maybe that's a part of him that's always been there. Point is, it's who he is and I've never been able to change it."

Jack sniffed. "Dean, when I prayed to him just now, something felt different."

"Different? Different how?"

"I don't know. Like, I could feel him hearing me all the other times. But this time, it was like he couldn't hear me anymore."

Dean's chest tightened. He glanced at the letter in Jack's hands.

"What if he's already gone?"

"No." Dean clad his voice in as much resolve as he could muster. "He's coming back. He has to be."

Jack wrapped his arms around his shins and pressed his face to his knees. With a glance to the ceiling, Dean lay his arm across the span of Jack's shoulders and pulled him to his chest.

"Guys?" Sam called from the hallway. From the volume and rhythm of his footsteps, Dean could tell that he was sprinting. "Dean?"

Dean craned his neck towards the door. "In here!"

Sam burst in, eyes wide, holding onto the doorframe for purchase.

"What? You find a spell?"

"Not a spell," Sam replied. "Not exactly."

Jack pulled away from Dean. "What is it?"

"Dean, remember when Cass said yes to Lucifer, and the Darkness captured him?"

"Uh, yeah. Pretty hard to forget that, Sam."

"Yeah. Well, remember how she went through Cass to find and talk to you?"

"She talked to me, but she was looking for Chuck."

"Doesn't matter." Sam pointed at the ground. "Cass told me something later, after Chuck and Amara left. He said that he felt guilt because Amara used your 'bond' to get to you."

"Because she used it for leverage. She was trying to trap us, draw out Chuck."

"That's what I thought, too. But what if that isn't what Cass meant? What if he meant that she used him, literally, to 'get to you?'"

"No," Dean said. "No, she just knew where the bunker was from Cass's memories."

"But she wasn't _in_ the bunker, Dean. You said that she and Cass appeared in your head, like visions. You could've been anywhere."

Dean thought back to his and Castiel's earliest memories—their talk in the mirror of a motel bathroom; the corner booth in Santa Fe where Castiel, weakened by banishment, couldn't stop Dean from glimpsing his past with Anna. How, when they were apart, Castiel could feel the pangs of Dean's injuries.

"You see what I'm saying, right? We just do the same thing, but reverse it. Use you to get to Cass."

"Wait, I'm confused," Jack said. "We need to call Amara?"

"I don't think we have to," Sam said. "Jack, you're as powerful as she is. Maybe more. I think you can touch Dean's heart and follow it to Cass. Uh, figuratively."

"Hold on, we don't even know how she did it. I mean, how sure are we that this is even going to work?"

"It doesn't matter." Jack scrambled up. "If we can get my father back, we have to try."

"Alright," Dean said. He followed the other two into the hallway. "Just let me hit the head first."

"Hey, Dean," Sam yelled. He and Jack had stopped at the corner that led to the rest of the bunker.

"What?"

"What was that about the power of true love not saving the day?"

Sam winked; he and Jack slipped out of sight. For once, Dean didn't care about who had gotten the last word.

* * *

At Sam's direction, Dean was sitting on the edge of one of the reading tables, looking up at him and Jack. Jack's right hand was splayed over Dean's heart, and Sam watched Jack's closed eyes intently as he bit one of his thumbnails.

"I'm not sure if I'm doing this right," Jack murmured.

"Try not to think of anything," Sam said. "Just let what's inside Dean come to the surface."

"There's too much there," Jack said. "It's overwhelming."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Wait, can he see, like, everything right now?"

"Dean, be quiet. Just think about Cass."

"What about him?"

Sam gave a little flare of his nostrils, a twitch of his jaw. "I don't know. His piercing blue eyes; his strong, steady hands—"

"Shut the hell up. Maybe Jack should be doing this on you, instead."

"Shh." Jack leaned into Dean. "I think I feel something."

"Is it Cass?" Sam said.

"I think so." Jack swallowed; his other hand wandered up Dean's arm and cupped his cheek.

"Uh—" Dean looked to Sam for help. "Jack, this is a little awkward."

"It's him," Jack whispered. "It's Cass. I know what I was doing wrong. I was looking for one thing, but it's like there are little pieces of him attached to everything inside you."

Sam snickered. "Oh my God. This is precious."

"Sam, shut your face, or so help me—"

"You love him." Jack opened his eyes; his bottom lip fell open. "You love my dad. He's your hope."

Dean stared back at Jack, dumbstruck. He had said it with such ingenuousness and wonder that Dean didn't feel any humiliation. Instead, he felt the unfamiliar gratitude of being accepted at his most vulnerable by someone who needed nothing from him in return.

"Jack," Sam said. "Can you grab onto that? Can you see where Cass is?"

"I—" Jack's eyes blazed gold. "I see him with...someone else. Someone who looks like him."

"Looks like him?" Dean echoed.

"What about surroundings? Can you see any road signs or buildings we could use to track his location?"

"No, there's only...trees. But they've fallen in a circle. And he and the other person are standing next to a cross, over a grave."

"I know where that is," Dean said.

"What? Where?"

"It's where you and Bobby buried me. Outside of Pontiac, Illinois. Where Cass and I met." Dean slapped the table in frustration. "I should have known he'd go there."

"Jack, can you take us there?" Sam said.

"I think so," Jack said. "I can see the spot in Dean's memories."

Dean pushed himself up from the table. "Then what are we waiting for?"

"Hold up," Sam said. "What about the Empty? I mean, do we even have a plan for what to do if we run into it?"

"Don't worry about that," Jack said.

Before Sam could respond, Jack gripped both of their shoulders, and the three of them were at the gravesite. A high-pitched perversion of Castiel's voice was talking into the unnaturally still air.

"Peace at last."

"Stop!" Jack shouted.

Simultaneously, the two Castiels turned to them. Their hands were joined over the grave.

"Cass?" Dean said.

The Castiel on the left withdrew his hand. He glared at Dean in the moonlight. "What are you doing here?"

"We're saving your ass. Nice to see you too, by the way."

"I told you not to look for me. I told you not to get Jack involved. Why don't you ever listen to me?"

"Cass, we couldn't just let you die," Sam said. "We had to try."

"How did you even find me?"

"Dean led us to you," Jack said. "I just followed what's inside him."

"'You followed'—" Castiel tilted his head in bemusement. "Jack, what are you talking about?"

"Look, Cass, that isn't what's important right now. The only thing you need to know is that this little deal of yours is over."

"Is it, now?" The other Castiel stepped down from the mound of dirt and approached them. "And by what rights do you break a bargain freely made?"

"You," Sam said, taking a step back. He tried to pull Jack with him, but Jack didn't budge. "You're the Empty."

"Indeed. What gave it away?"

Dean shrugged. "Well, the overpowering stench of douchebag was the first clue."

"Ah, Dean." The Empty, grinning, squared up to him. "The puffed-up bravado, the unquenchable lust for violence, the self-loathing masquerading as wit. What a miserable little gnat you are. One who will die alone, if I remember the future correctly."

"I don't know, pal. My record against cosmic entities is three-zero. You really want to do this?"

"Leave them alone," Castiel said, from several paces back. "Your deal was with me. They're not a part of this."

"Aren't they?" It waved its index finger, and Castiel tumbled to the ground between it and Dean. The Empty grabbed Castiel by the hair and slammed him into the earth.

"Stop it!" Jack said.

"You know, I was prepared to be nice," The Empty mused. "But now—now, I'm irritated. So I think it's time for you to sweeten our terms, Castiel."

Dean lunged forward. "Let him go!"

"Take a seat." The Empty flicked its chin, throwing Dean off his feet, flinging him back into one of the tall stumps. He slid down to the grass and groaned.

"Dean?" Sam rushed to his side. "Dean, are you okay?"

"Cass," Dean said. He blinked, trying to focus his vision. "Cass, you can't give up."

"You bargained your life," The Empty said. "Here's my counteroffer. Not only do I get you, but you're going to watch two of these three die slowly and excruciatingly before we go. I'll even let you choose. The one who survives will live out his days alone. It's a kink of mine."

"Please," Castiel moaned, spitting the dirt and blood from his mouth. "Don't do this."

"Choose, Castiel. Or I will."

"Cass." Dean pushed away Sam's arm and sucked in a pained breath. "Cass, no matter what, I want you to know. I want you to know that I was lying back then. I don't wish it never happened."

Castiel turned his head, lay his cheek to the planet. His eyes met Dean's.

"The mistakes I've made, the years I've wasted—somewhere along the line, all I could do was make it to the next day. Some days, I could barely even do that. You know that; you were there. You knew that and you still chose me. You kept choosing me, even when you shouldn't have. Even when you could have had everything else you ever wanted. And—and it's because of you that I don't want to just make it to the next day anymore. It's because of you that I want more than to just carry on. This can't be the end."

"Dean," Castiel mumbled.

"How touching," the Empty said, once Dean, spent, had slumped back against the tree stump. "But let me break in here to assure you all that this is, very much, the end."

"No." Castiel raised himself to his hands and knees. "No, you can't do this."

"I've made my decision, Castiel. After that pathetic display, it's obvious who will suffer the most on his own. Dean will be the one to go on without the rest of you. I do love a dollop of irony with my resolution." The Empty turned to Sam. "You first."

Letting go of Castiel's hair, the Empty raised its hand and snapped. When nothing happened, it snapped again.

"Hmm. You should really be bleeding from your ears right now."

"No," Jack said. His eyes shone in the moonlight. "You're done hurting people."

The ground rippled; the air hummed with power. Every speck of matter around them, every orbiting electron, seemed, for an infinitesimal moment, to wait. Then, the Empty flew back into the soil above Dean's grave. Its head hit the cross, which toppled and fell.

"My father isn't going with you. Not now and not ever." Jack helped up Castiel, draped his arm around his shoulders. Castiel tottered into him.

The Empty sat up. "Is that so, Nephilim?"

"This is our world, our paradise. There's no place for you here." Jack touched the side of Castiel's face; with a pulse of light like the morning sun, Castiel gasped and straightened up again. "Return to your realm and never come back."

At first, Dean couldn't tell what he was hearing. It sounded like the hiss of water on a hot pan. After a few seconds, he realized that the Empty was giggling. For a long time, it only stared up at the moon and giggled; then, it threw dirt into the air above its head and laughed some more.

"No matter how strong you think you are, you can never end me, Nephilim. I am the opposite of existence. I am nothing. Long after the last light of the universe winks away in the frozen darkness, I will endure."

"I know," Jack said.

"Then you know your threats to kill me are meaningless."

"I never said I would kill you." Jack stepped forward, shaking off Castiel's attempt to hold him back, and stood over the Empty. "But if I ever see you again—if you threaten my family again—I'll wake them all. Every angel; every demon. And no matter what you do, I'll keep waking them. You will never have peace."

"I see," the Empty said, after a long beat.

"That's all," Jack said. "Leave. I don't have anything else to say to you." He turned around and walked back to Castiel, who took his hand.

"You impress me, Nephilim." The Empty stood, pulled at the lapels of its suit jacket. "You wield ruthlessness with precision. No wonder God never stood a chance."

"It isn't that." Jack looked at Castiel, then over his shoulder at Dean. "It's not about winning. It's about love."

"Oh, how mawkish. You're just as much a sentimental fool as your father."

"You heard him," Castiel said. "Go, before he changes his mind."

The Empty nodded. "I know when I've been bested, Castiel. Before I depart, though, tell me one thing."

"What?"

"Do you remember our first conversation? What I said about who you love?"

"Yes." Castiel smiled at Jack; he squeezed his hand. "You told me there was nothing back here for me."

The Empty cocked its head at the moon. "I suppose I got some irony in my resolution after all. His creations surprised even him."

It disappeared, and Sam helped Dean to his feet. Castiel hugged Jack tightly for what seemed like minutes. Dean rubbed the ache in his back as he leaned into Sam for support, watching father and son with the kind of childlike awe that he hadn't felt in years.

* * *

"Sam," Castiel said. He tipped forward into Sam's arms, and Sam screwed his eyes shut in the embrace.

"It's so good to see you, Cass," Sam said.

"I feel the same." Castiel stepped back and turned to Dean. "I guess you have your brother who doesn't know how to listen to thank for that."

"Damn right," Dean said. He beckoned with his unbruised arm. "Come here."

Castiel pulled him in and squeezed. He settled his chin in the crook of Dean's neck.

"Dean," Castiel said into his ear. "You're injured."

"It's nothing."

"Here."

Dean felt Castiel's fingers at the nape of his neck, then the glow of his healing touch coursing through his body. When all the pain was gone, Dean pulled back and cleared his throat.

"Dean?" Castiel frowned. "Is something wrong?"

"No, Cass. Nothing's wrong. There's just something I want to say, so I'm going to say it, and you're not going to stop me this time."

"Dean's talking a lot today," Jack commented to Sam. "More than usual."

"He, uh." Sam bit his lip. "He kind of saves it up for special occasions."

"Dean, if this is about what you said earlier, it's okay. I understand if you want to take it back. You did think it was the last you'd ever see of me."

"What? No, you idiot."

"Good opener," Sam said, giving Dean a thumbs up.

Castiel glanced at Sam with trepidation. "Dean, what's this about?"

"Listen, Cass, I don't want to take it back. I want the opposite. I want to sit with you by a lagoon in the evening, listening to the crickets. And I want us to still be there in twenty years, doing the exact same thing."

"I told you," Sam said, bending towards Jack. "Everything's a Bob Seger song with him."

"Which one's Bob Seger again?"

"I'll show you when we get home."

"Quiet in the peanut gallery!" Dean barked.

"Dean, I don't understand."

"It's not important. I'll explain it later. What's important is this." Dean licked his lips before continuing. "I love you, Cass. I love you more than anyone like me deserves to love someone else. And I've always been too afraid to say it, because it was easier to fool myself into thinking that you'd always be there; that we had all the time in the world. And everything I've done to hurt you, to take you for granted—I take responsibility for it. I know I'm not easy to be around sometimes."

"More than sometimes," Jack muttered to Sam.

"Shh," Sam said. "They're having a moment."

"But what I've done—it's like you told me back then. Even with all the pain I've caused, I can still find redemption. That's one of the first things you said to me, come to think of it. And so, I'm asking—I mean, I'm hoping you feel the same way."

"You know I love you, Dean," Castiel said softly. He placed his hand on Dean's shoulder. "But this is something we should be talking about in private."

"Oh. Yeah." Dean let out a long breath. "Yeah, of course."

"Jack," Castiel said, turning to him and Sam. "Why don't you fly Sam back to the bunker? That way Dean and I have some time to talk."

"Wait, you're going to drive back?" Sam peered through the trees in the direction of the access road. "That'll take all night."

"No, I crashed the car I stole. It's a couple miles down the highway, in a ditch." Castiel chewed his lip. "I feel bad; I can't return it now."

"Was it, by any chance, a white 2005 Honda Accord?"

"Yes," Castiel said, looking perplexed.

"I knew it! I had this feeling—" Dean cleared his throat. "Anyway, you've saved the world like a dozen times. I think whoever owns it will just have to call it even."

Castiel snorted. "Thank you, Dean."

"Dean, you can just give me a call when you want me to come back for you guys," Jack volunteered.

"That won't be necessary, Jack. The Empty...restored my wings."

"What? Cass, that's fantastic!" Sam said.

"Hang on, when did this happen?" Dean said.

"I'm not sure. It claimed that it did it when Jack brought me back, but perhaps it was lying. What I do know is that as soon as it told me this, I could feel myself whole again."

"Castiel." Jack hugged him again. "I'm so happy for you."

"Thank you, Jack."

"Can I see them?"

"Maybe later," Castiel said. "As absurd as it sounds, I'm still a little self-conscious."

"That's okay. I wonder if they'll look like mine."

"Jack, uh—" Sam squeezed his shoulder. "We should probably leave these two alone."

"Oh. Yeah." Jack stepped away and looked up at Sam. "Can we make a frozen pizza when we get back? I didn't have any dinner."

"Sure, Jack." Sam winked at Dean.

"We'll save you some," Jack said, before he and Sam vanished.

They were alone now, among the fallen trees. Only a foot apart, staring into each other's eyes, the air thick and taut with expectation: to Dean, it was like stepping back into the old days. In the slipstream of the memories he'd received less than twenty-four hours before, that sensation took on a new poignancy.

"Walk with me, Dean. There's something I want to show you."

Dean followed him through the clearing and up the narrow trail to the road. When they emerged onto the asphalt, Castiel gestured west. The moon was high and brilliant now that the clouds had moved on, bright enough to reveal every crack in the pavement. As they walked, the soundless void of the gravesite gave way to the lugubrious hooting of barred owls, the tentative chirping of crickets.

"I remember walking this road," Dean said. "Weird; everything looks the same, even after twelve years."

Castiel's only response was a fond glance, a wan smile.

"You feel like talking now, Cass?"

"There's more you want to say," Castiel observed.

"I just have a lot of stuff I need to get off my chest. I don't know, maybe none of it will come as a surprise. But I have to say it to your face, anyway. For my sake as much as yours."

Castiel looked down at the centerline. "Then I will listen."

"I don't know if it's the memories or being back here, but I keep thinking about when I first met you." Dean chuckled. "You know I was afraid of you back then? You were powerful and alien in a way I’d never seen before—in a way I didn't even think existed before you walked into that barn. And as we got to know each other, I had to question a lot of things I thought I knew about the universe—God and angels, right and wrong." He wet his lips; the next part came out haltingly. "Not just that, either. Before too long, I started doubting things I thought I knew about myself."

"You always seem so sure of yourself," Castiel said. "No one would believe me if I said you had more turmoil underneath than any of us."

"A lot of it's an act," Dean confessed. "I'm sure you knew that already, though."

The look Castiel gave him—melancholy, wistful, with the slightest dance of humor in the crinkling of his eyes—told Dean all he needed to know.

"The feelings I had," Dean said, once Castiel returned his gaze to the moonlit road. "And me questioning them—I think that all started when you came back the first time. Even without knowing what it was, I could still feel that bond between us. I felt safe whenever you showed up to help me and Sam, and I felt this—this pull whenever you got too close. For a long time, that scared me. I knew what it was, but I didn’t want to admit it."

"Attraction?"

"No. I mean, yeah, sure. But it wasn't just that; not even mostly that. It's not like I was thinking about ripping your clothes off every time you entered the room. You mean way more to me than that."

Castiel laughed. "Dean."

"Look, Cass, you know I’m useless when it comes to saying what I’m feeling. I’d rather press it down and push through, make it to the next day. I guess I never got the chance to do it differently growing up. And then, ever since I was old enough, I’ve been fighting and killing and losing the people I care about. I never had the time to stop; to learn how to handle things in a better way. Maybe I didn’t want to admit that I might have a reason to."

Their pace slowed as they reached the driveway of the old gas station. Castiel stared up at the solar system, nodding as Dean took a breath, collected his thoughts.

"I know that none of that’s an excuse for how I treated you in the past, but Cass—I want to stop. I want to do better. I don’t want to spend one more minute being the jerk I’ve been to you, because that’s not who I am. It’s just the way I was protecting myself. I don’t even know from what anymore." He leaned against the boarded-up door and watched Castiel's expression. "And...that's it. I think if I say any more, my tongue will fall off. Not to mention my balls."

"Men can talk about their feelings, Dean." Castiel sat down between the pumps, on the poured concrete. "Sam does."

"I know." Dean settled down beside him, close enough for their shoulders to touch. "Just...old habits, I guess."

Castiel hunched forward. He clasped his hands over his knees. Dean gripped the edge of the platform, waiting for him to speak.

"This was where we met for the first time," Castiel said.

"Yeah."

"On Earth, at least."

"You know when you broke the windows? What were you saying to me?"

Castiel turned to him. "I said, 'Hello, Dean.'"

"Of course." Dean laughed and shook his head. "Of course you did, Cass."

"Dean," Castiel said. "For everything you've said tonight, I want to thank you. I've been hoping to hear you say those things for...many years."

"You have?"

"Yes. They make me very happy." Castiel reached down to the ledge, found Dean's hand, and rested his atop it. "Sublimely happy."

"Oh." Dean let his hand go slack, and Castiel eased himself into it. "Good. I mean, that's good. For a second, I thought I'd come on a little too strong."

"No. Well...."

"What?"

"Dean, as welcome as this is, I need a while to process everything. To take a breath and not be so overwhelmed. Think of all that's happened just today: our argument this morning, my journey here, the Empty, getting my wings back, and now this. Less than an hour ago, I was sure that I'd seen all of you for the last time."

Dean blinked. He pulled away from Castiel's hand.

"What does that mean? That you don't want to be with me?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying that I need some time to absorb what's happened. To think about what you've said. To think about everything."

"Okay," Dean said. He looked away, into the gloom of the forest. "Yeah, alright."

"Years ago, I would have taken you at your word without a second thought," Castiel said. "But I have Jack to think about now."

"Jack?"

"And not just him." Castiel paused; the night breeze swirled the dust and dry grass around Dean's boots. "Neither of us is the same as we were the last time we were here. Everything that's happened between us since then...."

"What about it?"

"Dean, I want the same thing you want." Castiel sought his hand again, and Dean let him take hold of it. "If we want it to work out, we can't make the same mistakes we've made so far. We have to reckon with them."

"Yeah, I know. And I told you, I want to do better."

"I heard you." Castiel smiled. "So do I."

After a few seconds, Dean cleared his throat. "Alright, well, I'll tell you one way I'm different. 29 back then, 41 now—give or take a few months or years—my ass doesn't take to sitting on concrete nearly as well."

Castiel chuckled. He pulled Dean up with him, and Dean dusted off the seat of his jeans.

"Thank you for understanding, Dean. I promise I won't make you wait too long. Just give me a few days."

"I can do that," Dean said. "Cass, where'd you learn all this relationship stuff from, anyway? You've never been with anyone."

"There's a radio program." Castiel took a step towards the highway, then circled back to him. "The woman talks to the people who call in about their problems. Then, she plays songs for them. I listen to her whenever I'm driving at night."

Dean grinned. He felt dazed and punch-drunk and giddy with affection, like one of those stupid kids who drove out to lovers' lanes and wound up as werewolf chow. He wanted to collapse back into the dirt road and laugh at the stars; he wanted to slide down the banister as soon as they got back, somersault onto the map table, and start a tap dance with everyone watching.

Even though Castiel was looking at him with bewilderment, he didn't care. He felt more at home in this angel's eccentricities than under any roof he'd ever known.

"We did it, Cass," Dean said. That was all he could say.

"We did." Castiel beckoned to Dean. "Let's celebrate."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Grab hold of me. I want to show you something."

"What, like—" Dean reached for his hand.

"No." In one fluid motion, Castiel stooped forward—one arm around the breadth of Dean's back, the other at his knees—and scooped him up.

"Whoa, Cass." Dean looked up at his dark eyes, at the bend of the galaxy behind him. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Dean, do you trust me?"

"Of course I do." Dean frowned. "Only thing is, when you ask me that, it usually means you're about to do something I won't like."

"Grab hold of me, Dean."

"What, like a chick?"

"Dean."

"Okay," Dean said resignedly. He draped his arms over Castiel's shoulders, joined them at his nape. He only had a second to get used to the position before he heard the distant rumble of dry thunder, felt an updraft ruffle his hair. He clung to Castiel, burying his face into the heat of his chest, as they ascended.

"I won't drop you," Castiel said gently.

"I know," Dean mumbled. The air was rushing past them so quickly that he felt like he could barely breathe.

"Don't be afraid. I have you."

Dean shook his head into Castiel's armpit. "You know I hate flying."

The wind grew quieter, calmer; it seemed like they were slowing. Dean could feel, at the outer edges of his perception, the bitter cold of the lower stratosphere. Within the shelter of Castiel's wings, though, everything was warm.

"Dean," Castiel whispered. "Open your eyes."

Over the hammering of his heart, he did. He blinked up at Castiel—his windblown hair; his eyes wide open; his silhouetted feathers, the color of midnight. It was like seeing him again for the first time.

"Look," Castiel said, dipping his chin to the planet.

Dean tightened his grip around Castiel's neck. He turned his head to follow his gaze. Far below, he saw the graceful arc of Lake Michigan, the rich yellow tangle of Chicago's lights on its southern shore. He saw the heaving thunderheads skewered on the peaks of the Ozarks and the tranquil, starry blackness over northern Kansas. He saw, delicate and pink on the eastern horizon, the first glow of daylight.

"Cass," Dean said finally.

"Yes, Dean?"

Dean turned back to him, breathed in the smell of him. Castiel tilted his head, waiting for him to continue.

"You were right. Good things do happen."

Castiel smiled. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Dean's lips. The world spun below them, slow on its axis, and Dean relaxed all of his weight into Castiel's arms. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel any fear.


	20. Love on Top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get kind of steamy in the second half of the chapter. There isn't anything too graphic and certainly nothing one couldn't read in a run-of-the-mill YA novel, but there's some stuff that isn't strictly safe for work, if that matters to you.

"My legs feel like jello.”

They were walking the few yards from where they had landed to the bunker's exterior door. Castiel, a half-step ahead, led the way.

"Actually, scratch that,” Dean said. “My entire body feels like jello."

Castiel turned to him. "You’ll get used to the surface again in a minute or two. If you want, I can carry you until then."

"No." Dean wobbled, and Castiel reached out to steady him. "I mean, thank you, but I can handle a few stairs. Plus, if Sam saw that, he'd never let me hear the end of it."

Castiel nodded.

"I'm really glad we did it, though," Dean said, with the tiny flick of his tongue over his upper lip that he did when he was nervous. "What a view. And the, uh, rest of it wasn't half bad, either."

Castiel smiled and looked down at the grass. Dean had always had a gift for understatement.

"You mind getting the door, though?" Dean winced as he leaned into the handrail. "Like I said, jello."

"I—" Castiel hesitated. "I left my key here, Dean. I didn't think I'd be coming back."

"Oh." Dean glanced at him, reached for his jeans pocket. "Sorry, I didn't think."

Castiel breathed in the humid night air as he watched Dean hobble towards the door. Compared to the freeze of near-space they’d floated in just minutes before, north-central Kansas felt oppressively hot, even at two in the morning. The moon was effulgent, the crickets in the fields melodic, Dean's voice all sweetness and indulgence; nevertheless, something about the perfect euphoria he'd felt when they were suspended above the world had cracked. Returning to the bunker meant venturing into the thicket of stale discord and simmering confrontation, unsaid truths and obvious lies, that had grown like kudzu around his and Dean's relationship, all but choking the life from it. It was a miracle that what was between them had survived for as long as it had, and most of the work that would be necessary to preserve it remained to be done. The real world—even the real world of paradise—was more fraught than it appeared from 15 miles up.

"Cass, you coming?"

"Oh." Castiel looked down from the moon. "Sorry."

Dean double-checked the door for fastness once Castiel joined him at the top of the stairs. "You okay?"

"Yes." Castiel patted his arm. "Just thinking."

"Oh. Right."

They started down the spiral staircase. Dean clutched the banister; his bowlegs quivered on the wrought-iron latticework. Castiel hung a few steps behind, letting Dean take his time.

"Anything, uh, in particular?" Dean said, with obviously feigned nonchalance. He paused, turning his head just enough to appear in profile under the glare of the stairwell’s light fixture.

"Many things," Castiel responded evenly.

"Me and you?"

"Yes, but." Castiel looked up, away from Dean. "Dean, you said—"

"I know, I know." He resumed his descent. "Sorry, Cass. I said I'd give you a few days, but I've never been the most patient guy. I get antsy. You told me to back off, so I’ll respect that.”

They reached the concrete landing and the bunker’s front door; the real world beckoned. Dean raised his key to the ornate lock and looked at Castiel for confirmation, as if they were perched together on a high branch, about to link arms for another of their leaps of faith.

"It'll be worth it." Castiel stroked Dean's cheek with his thumb. "Dean, I promise I won't make you wait a second longer than I need to."

Dean relaxed into Castiel's hand. His eyes fluttered closed for a split-second.

"You're right, Cass. Of course you're right. I mean, after twelve years, what's a few more days?"

He turned his key; the bunker's door yawned open. When they stepped onto the balcony, Sam was staring up at them from the center of the war room, a can of soda in each hand.

"Hey, guys."

"Sammy," Dean said gruffly. He limped down the stairs. "There any grub left?"

"Uh, there might be a few slices left of the pizzas we made. Throw another one in the oven if you want, there’re plenty in the freezer." Sam tossed his hair away from his face. "Dean, you, um—you having trouble walking straight?"

"No."

"That's my fault," Castiel said. He squeezed Dean's shoulder, and Dean pressed his palm to his forehead.

"Really?" Sam raised his eyebrows. "Your fault, huh?"

"We flew," Dean blurted out. "That's what he means. We flew miles above the surface, and my legs are still getting adjusted to the ground again."

"Of course," Sam said, smirking. "That's what I thought he meant."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Sammy."

"This is one of your brotherly jokes you’re not going to let me in on, I assume."

"I'm just giving Dean a hard time." Sam pointed one of the cans of soda at the door opposite the stairs. "Jack's in the TV room. I was just getting us some drinks when you guys came in."

"You mean the Dean Cave?"

"I'm not calling it that, Dean. Just like I won't call you 'Meat Man,' no matter how much you repeat it."

"Say it, Sammy. 'Dean Cave.' Say it."

"We were watching _Arthur_ ," Sam said to Castiel, after throwing Dean a sniffy look. "Mr. Ratburn just got married to another guy. Er, aardvark."

Dean slapped his thigh. "Wait, Mr. Ratburn's gay? Called it. Knew it from the first episode."

"Dean, that show started in the nineties. You were already in high school when it came out."

"And?" Dean hopped down to the corridor, pausing to regain his balance for a second after he landed. "Don't cartoon-shame me, Sammy."

Sam turned to Castiel and shrugged. From the kitchen came the sounds of Dean humming the _Arthur_ theme song and the freezer being thrown open.

"He seems happy," Sam observed. Castiel walked over, joining him at the center of the room.

"Yes," Castiel said.

"So, um." Sam put down the two cans of soda between them and sat on the edge of the table. "What happened after we left? If you don't mind me asking."

“Dean and I walked and talked. Well, he did most of the talking. At the end of it, I asked him if I could have some time to take stock of everything that’s happened.” Castiel met the anticipation on Sam’s face with a solemn stare, hoping to deter further questions. “Then we flew back here, like he said.”

“Huh.”

Castiel stood mutely in a way he knew was awkward, dreading whatever Sam was hesitating to say but not wanting to abruptly excuse himself.

“Dean told me.” Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean’s clinking in the galley. “About what you said.”

“Ah.”

“I kind of chewed him out for not saying it back. That he loves you, I mean.”

“Well, whatever you said worked. I’ve never seen Dean talk about his feelings as much as he did tonight.”

“Yeah, he’s come a long way from ‘no chick flick moments.’”

They both startled at a reverberating crash from the kitchen—ceramic on the metal countertop, it sounded like.

“I’m okay!” Dean shouted. “Didn’t break anything!”

“I should tell Jack I’m here,” Castiel said.

“Oh, yeah. Here, take his soda to him. I probably should check on Dean, make sure he doesn’t drop more of our stuff.”

“His vertigo should abate soon.”

“Hey, Cass,” Sam called, when Castiel was nearly at the doorway. He hadn’t gotten up from the map table yet. “If you need someone to talk to, you know, about Dean—about anything—you know where I am.”

“Thank you, Sam. Truly.”

Castiel crinkled his eyes at him, and they went their separate ways. From far down the corridor, Castiel could hear faint cartoon voices, which grew louder and more distinct as he approached the wide-open door of the entertainment room.

Jack was sitting in Dean’s chair. He had his feet on the seat cushion and was balancing his plate of pizza—empty but for one half-eaten slice—in the hollow between his thighs and belly. Castiel came up behind him and stroked the top of his head.

“Hello, Jack.”

“Castiel!” Jack craned his neck to look up at him. “You’re finally home!”

“I’m sorry I took so long. Dean and I had a lot to talk about.” He handed Jack the can. “Sam asked me to give this to you.”

“Thanks,” Jack said, but he placed both plate and beverage on the end table and twisted towards him. “Are you and Dean lovers now?”

“What?” Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Why would you think that? Who even taught you that word?”

“I think I taught it to myself,” Jack said, matter-of-factly. “It’s common sense, really. A person who loves is a lover. Dean loves you; you love him. I think you do, at least. Sam said you told him you did a while ago, before I was born.”

Castiel sighed. “No, Jack. Dean and I are not lovers.”

“Why not? You both love each other, right?”

“Because—” Castiel paced, trying to think of an answer that would satisfy him. “Because life is more complicated than that. Relationships are more complicated than that. What Dean and I have is real, but that doesn’t mean we’re lovers. Not until we figure out a few things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Castiel said, as he sat on the arm of Dean’s recliner. He lay his hand on Jack’s shoulder, and Jack sank back, nestling his head into Castiel’s chest. “Dean and I just need to talk.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again. Remember what I told you about being patient.”

“I remember,” Jack said. He sounded utterly unconvinced.

“This show looks interesting,” Castiel said, in an attempt to change the subject. “These are all animals?”

“Yeah! The main character’s an aardvark, but his best friend is a rabbit. Some of the students are monkeys, bears, dogs; their teacher is a rat.”

Suddenly, Jack gripped Castiel’s wrist.

“Jack? What is it?”

“I was just thinking, now that the Empty’s gone, you can come to the zoo with me.” Jack was mumbling, and Castiel felt his words more than heard them—the bobbing of his Adam’s apple along the buttons of his dress shirt. “Do you want to?”

Castiel wrapped his arms around Jack, shut his eyes, kissed the whorl of hair at the top of his head. Jack made a tiny choking sound as he wept.

“I’d love to go to the zoo with you, Jack.”

He held him like that, illuminated by the warm light of the television, until Jack’s breaths had returned to normal; until he was telling him, in intricate detail, about all the adventures the animal characters of the show had week after week.

* * *

In the early days, he had passed every night like this.

After the Empty had cast him out; after Dean and Sam, bug-eyed and breathless, had picked him up from the payphone at the bottom of the hill; after the two hours of late night snacks among the four of them and the hour of quiet glances, just him and Dean, between their chairs in the library; he had gone to Jack’s room. Jack was still awake, watching some comedy program and laughing along to it, and when Castiel peeked in, his first question was whether Dean was happy again. After that, he posed question after question—about Castiel, about angels, about the universe—until Castiel patted his knee and suggested they continue in the morning.

“Will you watch over me?” Jack said.

“If you want me to.”

“My mom—she said you would watch over me.” Jack pulled back the covers, crawled under them, pushed his pillow flat. “Now that you’re back, will you do that?”

Castiel was still and silent; Jack watched him expectantly. After a few seconds, he felt a hot tear roll down his cheek, then another.

“Castiel? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Castiel dried his face. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just so, so happy to be back.”

“I’m happy you’re here,” Jack said, though confusion still lingered in his voice.

“Go to sleep.” Castiel tucked the duvet around Jack’s shoulders, and Jack smiled up at him. “I’ll watch over you.”

For the rest of the early morning, from the small walnut chair by the bedroom door, he did. He watched Jack’s chest rise and fall underneath the blankets, listened to the soft whistling of his breath in the almost-darkness. About five hours after Castiel had switched off his lamp, Jack stirred and stretched and beamed and said good morning, and Castiel had never felt those words quite like that before.

Until last night, when the two of them had made plans to go to the zoo with _Arthur_ in the background, that had been the time he’d cried the most in all his years on Earth. As he watched Jack now, sleeping curled up on his side with a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, Castiel no longer wondered why joyful tears came to him so much more easily.

Jack sniffed, opened his eyes, and blinked at Castiel.

“You were watching over me.”

“Yes. Good morning, son.”

Jack returned the greeting and smiled. The nightlight in the corner was the room’s only illumination, but Castiel thought that Jack’s eyes shone brilliantly even in that.

“Are you rested? I thought you would want to sleep in later, after the day we had yesterday.”

“I wanted to.” Jack sat up, brushed the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He stared at the far wall.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “I’m fine.”

“Jack.” Castiel sat on the bed beside him. “I’m your father. That means that if anything’s bothering you, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Jack nodded.

“But if you’d rather not talk about it, that’s okay too. Some privacy is normal. At least, that’s what I read in the parenting books.”

He shook his head. “It’s not private. It was that dream again, the one with the monsters.”

“The one you had after Amara and Billie put Chuck away?”

“Yes, but this time, there were more of them.”

Castiel soothed his hand up and down Jack’s back. “It was just a bad dream. Everyone has those. Dean—you know, Dean had them for a long time.”

“It felt so real.” Jack turned to him. “‘Without me, the monsters take over.’ That’s what God said. Sam told me.”

“Well, then we just have to make sure they don’t.” Castiel gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry; Sam, Dean, and I have dealt with plenty of monsters.”

“No, Castiel. With Chuck gone, it’s my responsibility now.” Jack sat forward, and Castiel withdrew his hand. “I don’t want you to risk yourself anymore.”

Castiel frowned. “Jack, I won’t let you hunt alone.”

“Not hunting.”

“What, then?”

“The monsters—” Jack pulled his droopy, sleep-mussed fringe away from his eyes. “I can feel them. More when I sleep, but other times, too. I think I feel them more when they get stronger.”

“Stronger? Like when there are more of them?”

“I think so. Castiel, I think this is what God felt. Before he was put away. He could sense the monsters, and when there were too many of them, he dealt with them before they could take over.”

“Chuck?” Castiel leaned over to the nightstand and flipped on the lamp. “Why do you think he’s the reason you’re having these dreams? He’s gone now.”

“Because of when they started. It has to be connected.”

Castiel sighed; he took Jack’s hand. “Jack, I don’t like this.”

“It’s okay,” Jack said brightly. “This isn’t a bad thing. If I can sense the monsters, it means that I can deal with them. The three of you can stop hunting.”

“What do you mean, ‘deal with them?’”

“Well, I’ll give them a chance to live peacefully. They can share the world with us.”

“And if they don’t want to?”

“Then I’ll kill them,” Jack stated, with a flinty resolve that reminded Castiel, uncannily, of the Winchesters. “If I want something to die, I can just...think it. And then it does.”

Castiel shook his head. “No child should bear a responsibility as grim as that.”

“Father!”

Immediately after raising his voice, Jack hesitated. Pain flickered over his delicate profile, and he looked down at his upturned hands before continuing.

“I want to do this. Let me protect you.” Before Castiel could reply, he surged on. “I’ve never been just a child. Not even on the day I was born. Not even before that. You know this.”

“I know,” Castiel said, after a beat. “I just wish you could be.”

Jack turned to him with a half-awake smile. He still had sand at the corners of his eyes.

“I know you do. And I love you for that.”

Abruptly, Castiel stood up. Jack blinked at him, tilting his head in the way Jimmy had all those years ago.

“Come with me, Jack.”

Jack threw off the covers and pushed himself off the bed. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere that has nothing to do with God or monsters.” Castiel opened the bedroom door, and the light of the hallway poured in. “Somewhere where we can just be parent and child. The donut shop in Smith Center.”

Jack didn’t say anything. He just grinned, splashed water on his face at the basin in the corner, and slicked the unruly corn silk away from his eyes.

“I should leave Dean a note,” Castiel said, more to himself than to Jack. “He’ll worry otherwise.”

“Okay.” Jack had moved on to his dresser now, pulling up and tossing back a rainbow of T-shirts. “I’ll meet you by the stairs.”

Ten minutes later, Jack pushed open the exterior door of the bunker for the two of them. Castiel’s eyes adjusted to the sun, which, at a quarter to eight, was already well into its journey across the sky. The warm, sticky air hung to his trench coat; the smell of Jack’s deodorant, the same clear, pine-scented stick that Sam had used all these years, wafted across the foot of space between them.

It was only May, but it truly felt like summer.

“Jack,” Castiel said. He had wanted to sound enthusiastic, had aimed for the coddling tone he’d heard from mothers at the playground with their toddlers. Instead, his voice came out contemplative and unsure.

“What is it?”

“Let’s fly there.”

“Sure,” he said, reaching for Castiel’s shoulder.

“No.” Castiel twisted away. “ _Let’s_ fly. Both of us.”

“Oh,” Jack said, comprehending. “You’re going to show me your wings.”

It was a silly dance they were doing. Obviously, Jack could see the angelic presence behind Castiel’s vessel, though he either pretended or chose not to. Ever since the Fall and the months when he’d subsisted on borrowed grace, Castiel had hidden as much of himself away as he could; the mortification would have been debilitating otherwise. But Jack was too powerful to be turned away by that unless he acquiesced to it.

That first night, when he’d sat beside Jack’s bed and answered question after question, Jack had asked him why he didn’t look like the other angels. That was the only question on which Castiel had demurred. He’d even displayed a flare of indignation. At the time, he thought Jack was referring to his status as a seraph—his towering, crippled, sixfold wings—or to some lingering corruption from his grace-theft. After what the Empty had said to him last night, he now realized that Jack was instead wondering why he, unlike the others, was whole. He had known all along, and yet respected Castiel’s unvoiced wish to not broach the topic again.

“Dad?”

“Sorry,” Castiel said. “I was just thinking.”

Jack raised his eyebrows.

“I was thinking about how good a son you are.” Castiel stroked the back of Jack’s head.

“Stop,” Jack said. His cheeks took on a bashful glow.

Without another word, Castiel took flight. He soared up past the smokestacks that rose from the roof of the power plant, twirled through the belching soot and steam until he reached the clean, clear air above the highway. Jack laughed and called to him from somewhere close behind, his voice ringing with delight.

“Castiel,” Jack shouted, over the roar of an eighteen-wheeler passing below them. “I’ll race you there!”

“This won’t be like Connect Four,” Castiel warned. “I won’t let you win.”

“I’ll give you a head start,” Jack bragged.

 _The arrogance of youth,_ Castiel thought, as he plunged down to the fields of green, a steep arc that brought him brushing against the tender leaves of the young cornstalks. At the end of the row, he extended again, billowing up parabolically and cutting off the trajectory of a group of alarmed trumpeter geese, who honked wildly as they scattered in every direction. Jack, nipping at his heels, gave a little startled yell at the flurry of feathers.

“Careful.” Castiel glanced over his shoulder. “Let me know if you need me to slow down.”

“I hope you’re not tired already,” Jack retorted. His two massive wings loomed at Castiel’s back, blotting out the sun like menacing storm clouds.

Castiel chuckled. He dove forward, spinning around over and over until everything was a kaleidoscope of field and forest and road and sky. He reached the main street of Smith Center still whirling and flaunting for the callow fledgling in his wake and alighted on the flat rooftop of the donut shop. Jack touched down seconds later.

“Show-off,” Jack said, full of adoration.

“You let me win.” Castiel smiled at him. “Then again, I’ve been flying since before the first pterosaur made its leap of faith from the cycads of Pangaea. Maybe you didn’t let me win.”

“I know you’re boasting, but—” Jack suddenly darted forward and embraced him. “I can tell how happy you are. Is it weird that I want you to keep doing it?”

Castiel closed his eyes and pressed his cheek to Jack’s. His skin was hot and sweaty from the exertion of the flight: a marker of his humanity, his vulnerability.

“It’s because of you that I’m happy,” Castiel said. Because his mouth was beside Jack’s ear, he said it barely louder than a whisper.

“Not Dean?”

“Dean too,” Castiel agreed. “But you more than anything.”

The sound of someone rustling nearby cut the moment short. Castiel pushed Jack behind him as he turned to the noise, anticipating a threat by instinct.

“Who’s there?” Castiel demanded. “Show yourself, now.”

From behind the rooftop ventilation unit, a reedy, towheaded teenager in a white polo shirt inched up. The cigarette in his fingers trembled.

“Why were you watching us?”

“I wasn’t! I was just on my break when you showed up. Please, don’t hurt me.”

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Jack said, over Castiel’s shoulder. “My dad just forgets his people skills when he gets surprised.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

“What—what are you guys?”

“We’re angels,” Castiel said. “Well, I’m an angel; he’s a half-angel.”

The boy blinked at them. “Angels?”

“Yes, angels.” Castiel sighed. “Sorry for interrupting your break. We’ll be going now.”

“Hang on!” He tapped the ash from his cigarette, glanced up at the sky. “Are the two of you the reason all these good things are happening now?”

“Well, kind of,” Jack said. “It wasn’t just us, though.”

“Dude! You guys are awesome.” He motioned with his chin to the exterior staircase. “Can I give you some free donuts? You’ve got to let me give you something.”

“That’s generous of you,” Castiel said. “I suppose we can accept.”

The boy shook his head vigorously. He took a long drag of his cigarette as he started down the stairs. “No, man. It’s nothing. Compared to—I mean, my mom got out of the hospital on Wednesday after they’d given her three months to live. No one could explain it. I was praying every night, though. I knew God—” he turned back to them at the base of the steps. “This means God is real, right?”

Jack looked at Castiel, and Castiel shook his head minutely.

“It’s a long story,” Jack said.

“The important thing is that it was angels and humans who made this happen,” Castiel said. “Not God. And it’s in our hands to make sure we don’t squander what we have. We all have a part to play.”

The boy stared at the ground, seeming to digest this.

“Also,” Castiel added. “You should stop smoking those.”

He snorted. “You _are_ a dad.”

Castiel and Jack walked out of the shop’s front door a few minutes later with a baker’s dozen and two large coffees for Sam and Dean. There was an empty bench just outside, bookended by flower boxes and drenched in sun, and they sat down on it with the donuts and cup carrier between them.

“Jack,” Castiel said. “I’d like to talk to you about the Winchesters.”

“Okay,” Jack said, through a bite of maple bar.

“Just tell me your honest thoughts and feelings. I’m not looking for a right answer, and I won’t punish you or tell them anything you tell me without asking you first.”

“Okay,” he replied, more slowly.

“How do you feel about Sam?” Castiel asked. He figured he would be the easier one.

“I like Sam a lot,” Jack said. “He took care of me after I was born—I mean, before you came back. He’s really nice.”

Castiel nodded. “Do you like living with him?”

“Yeah.” Jack crammed more of the donut into his mouth. “The only thing I don’t like is when he farts in the car.”

“Well, no one likes that.” Castiel steepled his hands above his knees. He almost felt nervous. “And Dean?”

Jack was silent for a while. He took another bite of his donut. A rickety pickup truck stacked high with bales of hay rolled by, spewing bits of straw all over the street and the far sidewalk.

“Jack, no matter what you say, you’re my priority. I’ll love you and take care of you no matter how you feel about Dean. Even if you tell me you hate him, nothing will change between us.”

“I don’t hate him.” He cleaned his fingers with a napkin, slowly and assiduously. “Most of the time, I like him. But I’m not always sure he likes me.”

“Why do you say that?”

Jack looked away, in the direction of the road back to Lebanon. He pressed his hair, still awry from their flight here, back into place.

“I can tell that he doesn’t love me like you love me. Or like he loves you or Sam. And that’s fine. But—” Jack turned back to him, and his eyes were squinting with pain. “Sometimes, he’s just mean. Even before—even before Mary. And sometimes I think he only puts up with me because of you.”

“I see,” Castiel said, frowning.

“He gets scary sometimes,” Jack said, and the words were tumbling out now. “It’s like he goes crazy or something, and then he’s a completely different person from the nice Dean who takes me fishing and likes watching cartoons.”

“Are you frightened of him?”

“Not really. I know he can’t do anything to hurt me.”

“He can hurt your feelings,” Castiel said. “That can hurt more than a physical wound. We can just heal those.”

Jack shrugged. He reached into the box for another donut.

“Dean’s always had problems with anger. He didn’t have a very good childhood—Sam would say Dean never got to be a child at all. He’s always feared being abandoned. And losing everyone he has over the years—it’s changed him.” Castiel shook his head. “But none of that’s an excuse for him mistreating you.”

“He doesn’t,” Jack said. “Not most of the time.”

Castiel looked down at the box of violets beside him, where a yellow butterfly lazed among the blooms. After a few seconds, it floated up, over the bench and across Jack’s arms, and landed in the other flower planter. Jack, regarding his donut pensively, hardly seemed to notice it.

“Do you think he resents me?” Jack said. “He’d have you all to himself if I weren’t around. I did kind of take you away from him.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. After all, if someone loves you, they want you to be happy. And you make me happy.”

Jack munched on his donut, smaller bites this time. Castiel waited to see if he had more to say. Two more trucks, hitched up with campers for the weekend, rumbled through the intersection before passing into the distance, leaving the sidewalk quiet again.

“Jack,” Castiel said. “Do you want to keep living with the Winchesters?”

“Yeah. Wait, do they want us to keep living with them?”

“They do, I think. But I’m giving you the choice. Now that Chuck is gone, now that all the battles are won, we don’t have to stay with Sam and Dean if you don’t want to. It’s up to you.”

“I’ve never had another home.” Jack licked the icing from his lips. “If we stay, then you and Dean—”

“Don’t worry about Dean and me. I asked you what you want.”

“I want to stay.” Jack nodded, grinned—perhaps some of it was for show, but Castiel could tell that his desire was genuine.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I like Sam and Dean. We’re—I mean, we’re their family, aren’t we? They’ve said so.”

Castiel smiled. The butterfly had taken flight again, drifting now in entranced loops over Jack’s shoulder. When it landed on his forearm, he tensed, stock still, and giggled.

“It smells the sugar,” Castiel said. “The bees used to do that, back when I spent all my time feeding them. I’ll have to tell you about them sometime.”

Jack gazed down at the butterfly in wonder. When it reached his wrist, he pushed the donut towards it, causing it to flitter off on the wind.

“Aw,” Jack said. “I wish we could keep it.”

Castiel watched the butterfly until it was only a meandering dot on the pale blue sky.

“They don’t live for very long,” he said. “You know, they don’t always look like that. They go through a lot of their lives before they come out of their chrysalises—before they can fly. We just have to cherish their beauty while we can, because it’s fleeting.”

“I understand,” Jack said.

“Good.” Castiel reached across the bench and rubbed a crumb from the corner of Jack’s mouth. “Let’s go home. Dean’s probably wondering where his coffee is by now.”

* * *

The rest of the morning—which seemed to stretch into the early hours of the afternoon, as Saturday mornings in the bunker often did—passed slowly. Dean nursed his coffee, his feet up on the map table, while Sam, preoccupied with reading to them the headlines from the exuberant front pages of the world’s newspapers, finished his in minutes. The box of donuts slid east and west across the globe, brother to brother, except for the two times when Jack’s eyes flashed and it jumped into his lap, to the chuckles of the other three.

Dean fixed hopeful little looks on Castiel from time to time, usually after the latter had just finished saying something. Even though he was still mulling over his conversation with Jack earlier, Castiel smiled at him.

At around one, after a lunch of sandwiches and potato chips with French onion dip, Sam, Jack, and Castiel got into the lime-green car to go grocery shopping. Dean saw them off from the bunker door, saying that he had to pick up a new taillight in Salina and that if they got back first, that’s where he’d be.

Shopping with Sam was always more leisurely than it was with Dean. Sam liked to peruse, to compare; he read the backs of every package, dismissing the ones that didn’t meet his criteria with an annoyed huff. Dean was more a creature of habit: he beelined for the same items every time, and if the shop happened to be out of one of his favorites, his mood visibly sagged. Dean was a whirlwind of intent in the aisles of a grocery store. Sam was a slow, babbling brook—in part because he talked so much. Like now.

“CassDean.” Sam chuckled.

They were in the canned goods aisle of the organic co-op in Hays, surrounded by college students in fluorescent polos and pastel sundresses. Jack had wandered off to the snacks, leaving Castiel alone with Sam and his inane remarks.

“What?”

“It’s your name and Dean’s. Smushed together.”

“Yes, Sam, I can see that. I just don’t understand why you’d blurt that out in the middle of a public place and laugh to yourself.”

“Okay, sheesh.” Sam placed several cans of peeled tomatoes in the back of the cart. “You’re even touchier than he is today.”

“Dean?” Castiel stopped walking. “What did Dean say?”

“Oh, now you’re interested? When we left the bunker, you threatened you’d fly away on your shiny new wings if I so much as said Dean’s name.”

“I meant on the drive. I didn’t want Jack to get anxious.”

“Yeah, right. Jack.”

“Sam.”

Sam lay a box of lasagna sheets down beside the tomatoes. “It’s no big deal, Cass. He just snapped at me this morning when I asked him what happened after Jack and I left last night.”

“Sam,” Castiel sighed. “Stop poking the bear. He’s probably anxious enough as it is.”

“I’m just being supportive!” Sam threw his shopping list down into the cart’s upper basket. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like to be around you two for the last decade? All the staring contests and standing way too close to each other and Dean bringing you up in _every_ conversation and you _openly_ liking him way more than you like me—”

“Sam.” Castiel glanced at a trio of students who had stopped to stare at them from several feet away. “You’re making a scene.”

“I guess I’m joining the club, then. I mean, you and Dean make me watch all of your melodramatic breakups.” Sam turned to the students. “‘Friendship breakups.’ They’re still not sure whether they want to get together.”

“Not all of them. You haven’t been there for some.”

“The fact that there are even more that I haven’t been there for makes it worse, not better.” Sam picked up his shopping list. “Help me find some black olives.”

The students passed them warily and exited the aisle. Castiel followed behind Sam, scanning the lower shelves as Sam took the high ones.

“I wish you wouldn’t get so agitated,” Castiel said. He picked up a jar of olives and held it out to Sam. “Your equanimity is one of the reasons I seek your advice.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped as he accepted the jar. “I know, Cass. I know. And I’m sorry for getting worked up, I am. I’d just really hate to see you guys blow this. You and Dean—it’s been such a long time coming that I don’t know what the hell you two are waiting for.”

Sam pushed the cart to the end of the aisle, dropping canned beans and soups into it along the way. He turned to the produce section.

“Sam,” Castiel said. “Dean and I—we have to go into this with our eyes wide open. You know how volatile our relationship has been. If we don’t address the problems between us, we’ll just make the same mistakes again. Fools rush in—”

“Where angels fear to tread, yeah.” Sam placed two zucchinis atop the bed of the shopping cart. “I get that, I do. I just think….”

“What?”

“You and Dean, the two of you belong together. I know it, you know it, and I’m sure he knows it. I mean, Cass, I’ve known him all my life, and he’s different when he’s with you.”

“Different?”

“Yeah.” Sam tossed two bags of spring mix into the cart. “Happy. Or the Dean version of that, at least. As long as nothing’s exploding.”

Castiel smiled; Sam’s earnestness was beginning to break down his reservations. They continued down the produce aisle.

“Sam, if we’re meant for each other, then a couple days of thinking things through won’t be an insurmountable obstacle.”

Sam shrugged at that. “Hey, you know best. I’m just trying to look out for you. Both of you.”

“I know.” Castiel reached up and patted Sam’s shoulder. “You’re a good brother. A good friend.”

“I try.” Sam peered at his shopping list. “Huh. When I wasn’t looking, he snuck ‘gummy bears—and not that natural crap like last time’ on here.”

Castiel gazed up at the signs over the aisles. “I’ll see if I can find those. Jack’s probably still by the snacks, anyway.”

He left Sam among the vegetables, circling around the back of the store and through the refreshing cool of the freezers to the bulk goods. Jack was standing with his head tilted back, darting out his tongue to meet a long, rust-colored strip which he dangled above it.

“Hello, Jack. What is that?”

Jack bit off a piece. “It’s a—” he checked the label on the bin. “A raspberry fruit leather.”

“I see. I don’t think you’re supposed to eat these things before you’ve paid for them.”

“Oh.” Jack lowered his hand. “The people at the mini-mart don’t mind.”

“They know you. If you’re going to a place you haven’t been to many times, it’s better to pay first.” Castiel pondered the rows and columns of bulk bins. “I wonder if they have gummy bears here.”

“I didn’t know you like gummy bears.”

“They’re for Dean. They just taste like sugar to me.”

“Don’t worry; that’s what they taste like to me, too. I think that’s why people like them.”

“Well, I don’t see the appeal. Oh, here they are.” Castiel shoveled out a large scoop of gummy bears into a paper bag. “Jack, I’d like your permission for something.”

“What is it?”

“Dean and I are going to talk about our relationship soon. I’d like to talk to him about some of the things you told me.”

“Won’t he get mad?”

“I hope not. I’m not going to attack him. He may not even know he’s doing it—that he makes you feel the way he does sometimes. But if we’re all going to continue living together, and especially if he and I become—”

“Lovers?”

“Yes,” Castiel said grudgingly. “If that happens, then I need him to understand and accept that you’re just as important to me as he is. Just like he has Sam, I have you.”

“Huh.” Jack resumed chewing on the fruit leather, but Castiel didn’t admonish him. “Okay, you can tell him what I said. I just don’t want you two to fight because of me.”

“If we fight because of this, it wouldn’t be your fault.” Castiel squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you, Jack.”

Two hours later, they were unloading the groceries from the car, ferrying them to the galley. The drive back along Route 183 had been hot and dusty and punctuated by the death rattles of the car’s seventy-year-old air conditioning, and both Sam and Jack seemed tired and grumpy from the journey.

“Why can’t we just teleport them to the kitchen?” Jack complained.

“Because you won’t get arms like mine if you don’t work them.” Sam handed Jack a bag that was filled to bursting with long stalks of fennel, celery, and rainbow chard. “Anyway, that’s the last one. Cass and I can do the rest.”

“You know,” Castiel said, as Jack’s footfalls faded down the corridor. “Sometimes, I can forget that he’s the most powerful being who’s ever lived. It’s almost a comfort when he whines like any other human child.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket. “It’s Dean. He says not to make dinner because he’s bringing back Mexican food.”

“That’s nice of him.”

“I hope he remembers to get me something vegetarian.” Sam hefted the last two shopping bags. “I don’t know why he’s so invested in me eating meat. It’s annoying.”

“He probably thinks he knows best because he’s the eldest. Michael’s always been that way.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t. Not always.” Sam turned to him as they reached the kitchen. “You think he’ll be that way with you, once you’re together?”

“I don’t think he’ll force me to eat meat, Sam.”

Sam grimaced. “That isn’t what I meant. Thanks for the disturbing image, though.”

Castiel tilted his head. “What did you mean?”

“Just that—” Sam opened the refrigerator door, lined up the cartons of nut milk in neat lines. “Dean can be a little overbearing. He likes getting his way. And you’re pretty independent. You like your space from us every so often.”

“Yes.”

“You going to be able to handle that?” Sam said it kindly—a genuine inquiry, not a challenge. “Because you didn’t see him all those times you went MIA. Or when you died. If you think he’s moody now….”

He trailed off, but Castiel didn’t pick up the thread of the conversation. Sam started stacking the vegetables in the crisper.

“I’m on your guys’ side. I just think—look, he’s intense about you even as a friend. Obsessed, sometimes. If you become a couple, I just want you to be prepared for even more of that.”

“I am. But it’s also possible that he’ll calm down, now that we’re done thwarting apocalypses. Being trapped in life-or-death situations for years on end brought out the worst in all of us.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Sam poured himself a glass of water and downed it in a single gulp. “Well, like I said, if you need to talk.”

“You’ve helped already,” Castiel said. “I may still take you up on the offer, though.”

“My door’s open, Cass. Anytime.”

Castiel heard Dean calling his name a short time later, in the early evening. He was in his spartan room, standing in the corner and thinking about the time they had driven halfway across two states in a dream, when he heard him bellowing for him.

“Cass?”

Castiel opened his door. “I’m here.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“Hello, Dean.”

“I just got home. Got you some carne asada. I figured you might want to try it.”

Castiel thought for a moment, then nodded. “I see. You want me to taste it so you can eat the rest.”

“No, you can have all of it if you want. I just meant—” Dean pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “We’re eating now, if you want to join us.”

Castiel closed his door behind him. “I don’t mind, Dean. You’ve been finishing my food for a decade now.”

“Hey, what are friends for?”

Dean wore a strange look as soon as these words left his mouth, but Castiel didn’t ask him what it meant. He sat down at the kitchen table and tried two bites of the carne asada burrito before passing it off to Dean, who had been watching his plate wolfishly.

“No wonder Dean fell for you,” Sam said. His voice was husky from the beers the brothers had been drinking, from the heat and dust of the day. “He gets to eat two dinners when you’re around.”

“What’d you think, Cass?” Dean said, ignoring Sam. He pointed at the burrito with his steak knife.

“It was salty. And I could sense that the animal it was made from had had an unhappy life.” Castiel wiped his hands.

“Say it louder, Cass.”

“Shut up, Sammy.”

“Come on, Jack.” Sam extricated his rangy limbs from the low table. “I’ll show you those pictures of San Francisco I was telling you about.”

Jack followed him into the war room. Sam’s measured baritone and Jack’s excitable tenor carried back down the hallway and into the kitchen, offering up places and experiences imbued, it seemed, with transcendent meaning. _Golden Gate. Chinatown. Point Reyes. Palo Alto._

“How you doing, Cass?” Dean said. His knife squeaked on the china, and Castiel turned to him.

“Fine. Shopping with Sam—it’s always an adventure.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah. Better you than me.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Castiel said.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Baby has a new taillight.”

Castiel looked down. He didn’t know what to say next, though he felt he should say something.

“I don’t think he’s ever stopped missing that place,” Dean said. It took Castiel a second to realize he was referring to Sam.

“Ah.”

“Maybe because he got to live his own life there, I don’t know. I never went to college.”

Castiel nodded. He watched Dean drink in long gulps from his beer bottle.

“I used to wonder what it would’ve been like. Maybe nothing would’ve been different. Seems to me like me and Sam were always destined to live this life, one way or another.”

“Well, you don’t have to now,” Castiel said. “You did mention retirement last week.”

Dean poked at his burrito. “I guess.”

He sounded exhausted. Castiel tingled with the urge to comfort him—by words, by touch—but he knew that he should wait.

“Tomorrow night,” Castiel said. “Can I come to your room after dinner? Can we talk then?”

“Alright.” Dean reached for the beer again, but it was empty. “Okay, yeah. Looking forward to it.”

Later that night, Castiel was sitting on Jack’s bed. Jack, already under the covers, couldn’t seem to stop talking about the movie they had watched.

“Dad, didn’t you like it?”

“It was okay.” Castiel smiled at him. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Dean, right?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, there are things I want to ask him to stop doing, but I want to do it in a way that makes him feel safe. Cared for. I don’t want him to become defensive.”

“Just be honest, like you are with me.”

Castiel canted his head. “Dean’s more complicated than that. He usually doesn’t react well to a frontal approach.”

To Castiel’s surprise, Jack groaned.

“Jack? What’s wrong?”

“Why does Dean love making everything complicated?”

“I’ve wondered that myself a few times.”

“You know how in the movie, the girl was angry because the guy was keeping secrets from her, but it was really because he wanted to keep her safe? And then instead of explaining everything, he just grabbed her and kissed her?” Jack rolled over and turned off his lamp. “You should do that.”

Castiel laughed. “Maybe. Good night, Jack.”

He sat in the chair by the door and watched him for a little more than an hour. When Jack’s eyelids quivered, heralding his arrival in the realm of dreams, Castiel eased himself up and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Then, he walked to his room to retrieve his phone and made his way to the library. He sat in his favorite seat, opened the notepad on his phone, and looked at Dean’s chair once in a while as he listed out the things he’d say to him tomorrow.

* * *

Sunday, unlike Saturday, passed quickly. Jack had discovered some game involving talking farm animals on his phone, which so engrossed him that he only offered perfunctory answers to Castiel’s questions about it. Sam liked to pass his Sundays reading dry-looking histories, an activity which he seemed to take more seriously, and seemed to more acutely resent being interrupted at, the older he got.

Dean, as usual, was in the garage. At some point after he had returned home from Salina yesterday, Sam had informed him of the failing air conditioning in the green car, which meant that Dean spent most of the morning and afternoon hunched over the car’s hood or wheeled under its suspension.

“I hate this car,” Dean said, grease-faced, when he came in for lunch.

Sam looked up from his book. “No dice?”

“Thing’s a bitch to work on. I tried calling that classic car guy in Lincoln, you remember the one? Dude laughed at me.”

“Huh,” Sam said. He seemed aware that he should say more, but instead returned to where he’d left off on the page.

Dean sighed as he assembled his sandwich. “I don’t know, Cass. You and Sam might have to use one of the others until I can get Chitty Chitty Bang Bang booked into a fifties specialist.”

“I suppose we could just use the Impala when you don’t need it.”

Dean patted Castiel’s cheek softly. “I love you, but don’t push it.”

Sometime in the long hours of the late afternoon, as Castiel was meditating at the foot of his bed, Sam rapped at his door.

“Enter.”

“Cass? Oh. Sorry for interrupting. I figured I’d check if you still wanted to help me with dinner.”

Castiel opened his eyes, uncrossed his legs. “Of course, Sam. As you say, lasagna is a two-person job.”

“Whenever you’re ready. I’m just rinsing vegetables right now.”

Castiel followed him to the kitchen. Sam, as usual, asked him to chop the onions, since his eyes didn’t water. From the center of the island, Sam’s phone played unobtrusive, tinkling music that he described as a “summer garden party playlist.”

“Sometimes—” Sam finished stirring the pan of sizzling vegetables. “It’s weird. Sometimes I still can’t believe that it’s over. That we won.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It’s like, after living my entire life under this dark cloud, it’s hard not expecting it to come back.” Sam nodded to the chopped spinach.

“I understand that,” Castiel said. He dropped the spinach into the pan, and Sam spooned out a can of tomato paste. “Complete freedom can be scary. I felt that way when I rebelled against Heaven. Sometimes I still feel that way.”

“Yeah.” Sam scratched his chin. “You know, for the longest time, all I wanted was a normal life. Now that I can finally have it, though, I’m hesitating. Not sure why.”

“Maybe you’re still not sure all this is real?”

“Maybe,” Sam agreed. He tipped the bowl of peeled tomatoes into the pan, crushing each one in his fist as it fell. Some of the red liquid squirted onto Castiel’s coat, and Sam apologized.

“I’m not the neatest cook,” Sam said, as he washed his hands. “Have you noticed?”

“It’s fine, Sam.”

“I never cooked growing up. It was always Dean. Even when I was old enough to do it, he still wanted to.”

Castiel smiled. “Well, Dean likes taking care of people.”

“I’m trying to do more cooking now. Making up for lost time. Even if Dean complains about ‘deer food.’”

They turned off the vegetables to rest; Sam made a white sauce while Castiel cooked the pasta. Jack wandered in at one point and peered at the stove over Castiel’s shoulder, but Sam gently shooed him away, asking him to tell Dean that dinner would be ready in an hour.

“Sam,” Castiel said, as they layered the casserole dish. “I’d like to ask you something about Dean.”

“Yeah, shoot.”

“I’m going to talk to Dean tonight. One of the things I want to do is explain to him how his anger makes me feel. And ask him to talk to me instead of bottling things up.” Castiel finished with the sheet of noodles, and Sam started pouring the sauces over it. “I’m just not sure how to do it without him feeling like he’s being attacked.”

“Well, when you figure that out, definitely let me know,” Sam quipped. “But more seriously, I’ve thought about this.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, at least since around the time Jack was born. You didn’t see him then, Cass. He was just…broken.”

“You mentioned that yesterday.”

“We went to see a therapist back then, believe it or not. Jack had lost Kelly, Dean and I had lost our mom, and all three of us had lost you.”

“Dean actually agreed to that?”

“Long story. Well, not a long story: it was part of a case.”

“I can’t imagine it went well.”

“Dean was…Dean. But the thing is, it wasn’t just about Dean. It was about the rest of us too: how we felt; how he made us feel. And I think seeing someone could really help the two of you. Or even all four of us, if you and he wanted to do that. For the support.”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said, as he finished another layer. “I doubt Dean would treat it seriously. He might do it to humor us, but not take any of it to heart.”

“Well, he should at least be willing to consider it. I think you deserve that much from him if you’re committing to a relationship.”

Castiel nodded. “There’s something else.”

“Alright.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way.”

“Alright,” Sam repeated, with a wry, sidelong glance.

“I’ve watched Dean’s previous…relationships. Except for Lisa, none of them lasted for very long. Even his partnership with Lisa was as much about Ben as her.”

“Ah,” Sam interjected. “Cass, don’t worry about that. Dean’s way more devoted to you than anyone else he’s ever been with. Like, think about what he’s done for you—spent a year trying to get you out of Purgatory, stood up to Lucifer and Amara to get you back, decided he’d rather die to Ramiel than abandon you—”

“Sam, that isn’t what I’m worried about. Thank you, though.”

“Oh. Sorry. Guess I jumped the gun a bit.”

Castiel finished with the last layer of pasta and stepped back from the counter. “I was going to say that, after I’d contemplated his romantic and sexual liaisons, I realized that there’s one relationship in which he’s displayed all the devotion and commitment that was missing from those. And it isn’t the one he has with me.”

Sam spread the sauce over the top of the lasagna; comprehension dawned over his features with less resistance than Castiel had anticipated.

“Me,” Sam said. A statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

Sam took a deep breath. He carried the casserole dish to the oven, waited for Castiel to open it, cleaned his hands on a paper towel.

“I’m not suggesting—”

“I know,” Sam said. “But it’s true, Dean doesn’t really have boundaries when it comes to me. Trust me, I’ve tried talking to him about it plenty of times. And yeah, it’s not all Dean, but it’s mostly him.”

Castiel didn’t contradict him. He pulled on the yellow dish gloves and filled the sink with soap and hot water.

“Cass, why are you telling me this?”

Castiel hunched over the steam from the sink. He waited a long while before responding.

“I’m going to be completely honest with you, Sam.”

“Please do.”

“Part of me thinks that Dean is incapable of functioning without you as a crutch. Without you nearby to take care of him, and to be taken care of. That’s highly endearing as a family dynamic. But it’s a much less endearing trait in a potential partner.” Castiel began to scrub the dishes. “At least, that’s what I’m led to believe from five years of listening to nightly relationship advice on the radio.”

Sam joined him at the sink and began drying the dishes. “Cass, I’m also going to be completely honest with you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I’m super happy for you guys. Really, I am. I mean, there’s a part of me that’s wanted to push the two of you together and order you to just kiss already for years and years—”

Castiel frowned at him.

“Anyway, point is. I’m one thousand percent behind CassDean.”

“Stop calling us that.”

“But,” Sam continued, undeterred. “I have a selfish motivation as well.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. It’s just…I figure that, once Dean has you, he won’t spend so much of his time worrying about me. Wanting to structure every part of my life. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love him. I love him more than anyone. But one thing he’s never been able to accept is that I need my own life.”

“And no one should blame you for that,” Castiel said.

“So, I guess I think that the two of you getting together means that I’ll have more room to breathe, you know? Meet different people; maybe start dating again, find someone of my own.” Sam snorted as he dried off the last pot. “It’s weird, I feel guilty even saying any of this out loud.”

“Don’t,” Castiel said, as he pulled off the rubber gloves. “I understand completely.”

“Anyway.” Sam leaned against the counter. “I get where you’re coming from, but take it from me. If you, and Dean, and me all want it to work out, you won’t have anything to worry about. Especially now that there isn’t a new apocalypse bearing down on us every couple years, Dean has way fewer reasons to worry about me.”

Castiel smiled at him. “Thank you, Sam. You are a true friend.”

“After everything the three of us have been through, you guys deserve this.” Sam clapped his hand to Castiel’s shoulder. “I’ll always be on your side, Cass. Yours and Dean’s. Come here.”

Sam pulled him in and squeezed. In ways beyond the missing frisson of arousal, his hugs were different from Dean’s—more encompassing, all long hands and encircling arms; less guarded, since he didn’t lead with the pretense that he disdained intimacy. Castiel was grateful for Sam, loved him almost as much as he loved his brother. What an irony of Chuck’s story that he had started out loathing him.

“I should get changed before dinner,” Sam was saying. “Tomato sauce on my shirt.”

“Ah.” Castiel stepped back. “Of course. Thank you again, Sam.”

“Don’t mention it, Cass.” He stopped at the kitchen’s threshold, beneath the hallway light, and turned back. “Good luck tonight.”

* * *

The lasagna was a success. Even Dean, freshly showered after his day under the hood, praised it, notwithstanding a halfhearted remark that it could be even better with meat. He sat subtly closer to Castiel than normal on the table bench, brushing his arm over his when he didn’t have to. Both Sam and Jack seemed to notice, since they watched the two of them with open fascination. Castiel wondered how long they would do that for.

“Jack,” Castiel said, when they were in the library after dinner. Sam was at one of the tables, videocalling with what sounded like an old friend with whom he’d once been close; Dean was likely in his room, awaiting Castiel’s arrival.

“Huh?” Jack said, barely looking up from his phone.

“I’m going to talk to Dean soon. I don’t know how long it’ll take, so I may not be there to tuck you in tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t stay up all night playing that. You’ll be grouchy tomorrow if you do.”

“I won’t.” Jack reached for Castiel’s hand and squeezed. “You can do it, Dad. Dean loves you; I’ve seen it.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

“Can we go to the zoo tomorrow?” Jack said, already on the next topic. His phone vibrated with the oinking of a pig, which echoed against the walls of the library.

“Maybe. Let’s see what Sam and Dean feel like doing.” Castiel stood up. “You might want to turn that down. Sam’s trying to have a conversation.”

He made his way down the corridor, palming his phone in the pocket of his trench coat as he walked. He could already hear Dean’s music, the twanging of “Far Away Eyes” by the Rolling Stones.

Dean’s door was ajar. He had left it ajar last night, too, which Castiel had noticed as he passed by on his way to say good night to Jack. By the time he ended his vigil and returned to the library to write out his thoughts on his phone, Dean’s door was shut, the thin crack along its underside dark.

It was nine; above ground, the sun had just set below the plains. After so many years, Castiel finally felt ready.

He raised his hand, knocked on the doorframe, and pushed inside. The lamp on Dean’s desk and the glow of his computer screen lit the room in soft hues.

“Cass,” Dean said. He sprang up from his desk chair, which slid and clattered behind him, nearly tipping over.

“Hello, Dean.”

They stared at each other—Castiel’s eyes fixed on Dean’s, Dean’s traveling up and down and sidewise, looking for a safe place to come to rest. After a few seconds of this, Castiel pulled his phone out of his pocket. Dean blinked at it, taut and skittish, as if a blade had just been unsheathed.

“Can we talk now, Dean? Is this a good time?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, before Castiel had finished voicing the last word. He walked to the corner, switched off his record player.

Castiel bent towards the laptop screen. “What were you doing?”

“Oh, uh, looking at crime reports.” There was the sound of vinyl returning to its sleeve, and Dean cleared his throat.

“You were looking for a case?”

“Curiosity got the better of me.” Dean joined Castiel at the desk. “Cass, part of me wants to hang up my hat. Relax, live an apple-pie life. With you, if….”

Castiel smiled. His shoulder brushed against Dean’s.

“And then there’s another part of me that’s always going to want to hunt things. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

“I understand. In spite of everything, there’s still a part of me that misses Heaven. Shall we…sit?”

“Yeah.” Dean pushed forward his desk chair, facing it towards his bed, and offered it to Castiel. Once Castiel sat down, Dean took a spot at the foot of his bed and hid his hands in the pockets of his robe. Castiel looked down at his knees and unlocked his phone. They exchanged an appraising glance.

“Dinner was great tonight,” Dean said. “I barely missed the meat.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said. “Dean, I wrote down a few things. I was thinking that we could take turns talking. Listening to each other. Hearing each other—no interrupting, no raising our voices.”

“Of course.” Dean gulped. “Cass, not for nothing, but the fact you wrote a list is making me pretty damn nervous.”

“Don’t be.” Castiel moved his chair closer; he patted Dean’s knee. “I love you. I want us to be together. These are just things I want you to know first.”

Dean nodded. He didn’t look up. Castiel could tell from his breathing that he was nervous, verging on panic.

“Hey,” Castiel said gently. “Hey, look at me.”

He stroked Dean’s thigh until he raised his chin again. Dean’s eyes, still as verdant and vulnerable as they’d been that first morning at the Café Sonámbulo, seemed to finally find a speck of calm under Castiel’s gaze. His entire body mellowed into Castiel’s touch.

“Don’t be afraid, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Dean cleared his throat again. “I trust you.”

“Do you…want to say something first? Or should I?”

“Go for it, Cass. Lay it on me.”

“Okay.” Castiel sat back from Dean, held up his phone with both hands. “Dean, the main thing I’d like you to try is talking to me more about your feelings.”

Dean exhaled. “Of course that’s the first thing.”

“You don’t have to hide anything from me, Dean. I know things about you even Sam doesn’t know, and I still love you. I love you inclusive of your mistakes, your flaws. I know how deeply you feel everything. You don’t have to bottle things up anymore.”

“I hear you, Cass. But it’s not really about that.”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t hold things in because I can’t face what other people think of me. I hold things in because I don’t want to face what I think about myself.”

“I see.”

Dean shrugged. His body language was indifferent, but Castiel knew that it was a façade. It had required a herculean effort for him to admit what he just had.

“But if we’re partners,” Castiel said, “then I can help you with that.”

“I’m not a charity case, Cass. I don’t need you to fix me. I don’t need you to save me.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Castiel said hastily. “Please don’t think I meant it that way.”

Dean stood up. “You mind if I get a drink for the rest of this?”

“Actually, I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

Dean’s eyes flashed. “Sorry, what?”

“It’s related. Please, just sit down until we’re both done talking.”

Dean huffed. He tied his robe shut and plopped down on the foot of the bed again.

“It isn’t just about you, Dean,” Castiel said, in as mollifying a tone as he could manage. “Because you not talking about how you feel affects the people around you: Sam, Jack, and me.”

“Cass—”

“Please, I’m going to finish this. If you don’t talk to us, then you’re bound to handle things in other ways. Shouting, throwing things, drinking too much—”

Castiel stopped; Dean’s posture was stiffening. He was retreating from the conversation.

“Dean, the reason I’m telling you this isn’t to attack you. I’m saying these things because, more than anything, I want you to be happy. And I know being angry doesn’t make you happy. I know you want to change. I felt it in Purgatory, even before you told me the other night.”

“Yeah, I thought you might have.”

Castiel winked. “You’ve never been able to keep anything from me, Dean.”

Humor was the right choice: Dean’s shoulders relaxed, and he chuckled.

“You’re right, Cass. I’m a jerk, I know I am. I know I’m being a jerk even when I’m doing those things. And I don’t care in the moment. Sometimes I even enjoy it. But afterwards….” Dean stared down at his hands.

“Afterwards?” Castiel said, with an encouraging tilt of his head.

“I hate that Sam flinches when I scream and break things. I hate seeing the look in your eyes right after I say something because I know it’ll hurt you. I hate myself.”

He took in a sharp breath, and Castiel couldn’t hold back any longer. He moved to the bed, sat beside Dean, and put his arm around him.

“Don’t, Cass.” Dean twisted away. “I’m not worth it.”

“You are,” Castiel said. “Never say that, Dean. Never think that.”

Dean hunched forward stubbornly. He sniffled, clasped his hands together as if in prayer, and rested his forehead against his thumbs.

“Dean,” Castiel said, after they had sat in silence for a long time. “Remember what I said to you in that motel, the first time I visited you in your dreams?”

“Some God squad crap,” Dean mumbled.

“I said that you deserved forgiveness. Redemption.” Castiel reached for him again, settled his hand around his waist. “I still think that, you know. And I hope you feel the same way about me.”

“You heard me praying, Cass. You know I do."

“Well, I’ve always found it easier to forgive others than myself,” Castiel said. “Maybe, deep down, you’re the same way, even if it doesn’t seem like it on the surface.”

Dean didn’t reject that. He sat up and gazed straight ahead at the door.

“If we’re together, if we forgive one another, if we’re truthful with one another, then it’ll be that much easier for us to face our own demons. That’s what I meant before.” To punctuate the point, Castiel moved his hand up Dean’s side, resting it on his left shoulder.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” Dean reached up and fitted his hand over Castiel’s. “Maybe not. Either way, I’m willing to try. You could sweet-talk me into anything.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime. Okay, what’s next on my rap sheet?”

Castiel tapped his phone. “I only have a few more things, if you don’t mind listening.”

“Give it to me, Cass.”

Castiel scrolled down his list. “Dean, we’re going to be equals in this relationship.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“That means you won’t always get what you want. Sometimes you’ll get your way; sometimes I will. Sometimes we’ll compromise. I won’t put up with you barking orders at me like I do when we’re hunting.”

“Not even in the bedroom? I mean, that could be fun.”

“Stay on topic.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Cass, you don’t have to convince me on this. Frankly, I’m kind of surprised you brought it up.”

“Are you denying that you prefer to be the one in control?”

“Alright, fine,” Dean grumbled. “I like to take charge. Don’t act like I never follow your lead or go along with what you want, though.”

Castiel had to concede that. “You do. Not as often as I’d like, but you do.”

“Thing is, Cass, I back off when you put your foot down. I can tell when you’re done with my shit.” Dean nudged him with his shoulder. “Maybe you should try doing that more.”

“Maybe I should.” Castiel put his phone down on the chair. “There’s only one more thing.”

“Name it.”

“It’s Jack,” Castiel said. He was most confident about this point on his list, either because of fatherhood or simply because he’d always felt more conviction when standing up for others than for himself. “I just want to clarify where we stand on him.”

“Okay.”

“How do you feel towards him?” Open-ended questions were good; he remembered Leila saying that several times.

“Alright, I guess. He killed my mom, but then he saved the world. None of us four is perfect.”

“Don’t be glib.”

“I’m not.” Dean threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Cass. I can’t just forget what he did.”

“I would never ask you to. I won’t tell you how to feel, Dean. But you must understand, I love Jack. He’s my son. If we’re together, then he’ll be a part of our life.”

“Cass, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

Castiel looked at Dean and waited. He only spoke once Dean finally returned his gaze.

“I don’t want you to lash out at Jack anymore. If you ever have an issue with him that you can’t solve by talking to him calmly, I want you to come to me.”

“The kid’s basically God, Cass.”

“I mean it, Dean. I was serious earlier about us improving the way we treat each other, but I’m even more serious about this. I never want Jack to feel unwelcome in his home. Or that you resent him. Every family has problems, but we need to deal with them in healthy ways now. No more apocalypses, no more excuses.”

Dean nodded. “Alright, Cass. I’ll do it. For you.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

“That everything?”

“Basically, yes. Do you have anything to ask of me?”

“Yeah.” Dean cleared his throat. “I didn’t make a whole list, but I think I can come up with a few things off the top of my head.”

“Tell me.”

“You said I have to communicate better. Well, so do you. No more disappearing without saying anything. I’m sick of worrying about where you’ve gone, whether some demon got you, whether you’re dead in a ditch somewhere. I don’t want to have to wonder whether you’re ever coming back through my door. It’s cruel.”

“I’m sorry, Dean. You’re right. I won’t leave without telling you in the future. Unless it’s a little thing.”

“’Little thing’ like a run to the mini-mart, or ‘little thing’ like a trip to Heaven where they hold you hostage for a week while some crazy angel interrogates you?”

“The first one. If I’m doing anything related to Heaven, I’ll tell you first.”

“Okay. Second point. You want us to compromise? I’m all for that. But you need to stop going behind my back and doing things your own way when we disagree. No more lying, stealing things, knocking us out, altering memories, making little deals to keep me or Sam or Jack safe. We face things together. Deal?”

“Yes, Dean. Deal.”

“And definitely no more sacrificing yourself. I—” Dean’s breath hitched, and he looked off at the corner for a few seconds before turning back to Castiel. “I can’t bury you again, Cass. I can’t do it.”

“I promise.”

“Then—” Dean raised his eyebrows. “We done?”

“Nearly. There’s just one more thing. Sam suggested it to me. All of the things we’ve discussed? There are people we can talk to who can help us with them.”

Dean fell back into the bed and fluttered his lips. “Of course Sammy wants me to see a shrink.”

“I thought his suggestion of a therapist was inspired. I didn’t get to talk to the one the three of you saw.”

“Well, we almost got ganked by a ‘shifter at her office, so it wasn’t exactly a great experience.”

“Then whoever we see next will be an improvement,” Castiel said patly. “You and I could go, or maybe all four of us could. And if you’d like to talk to someone on your own, that’s fine too. But we’re going to do it.”

Dean sighed as he stared up at Castiel from the bedspread.

“What?”

“Just thinking what my father would say if he could see me now. Being dragged to couples therapy by my gay angel boyfriend.”

“Dean, I’m indifferent to sexual orientation.”

Dean snorted. His arm darted up, pulled Castiel tumbling down onto him. Their chests crashed together, and Castiel could feel Dean’s erection pressing up against his leg through the thin layers of fabric between them.

“Still indifferent?” Dean said, his lips inches away. He arched his hips up to drive home the point.

“Not when it comes to you.” Castiel stroked his fingertips through Dean’s hair, traced the outline of his ear with his thumbnail. “Never when it comes to you.”

Dean was the one who kissed him this time, leaning up from the bed and guiding the back of Castiel’s head with his grasping, greedy hand. Owing to the bedframe’s ledge and the ungainly twist of Castiel’s spine, they weren’t lined up correctly, which led to clashing teeth and misplaced noses and a dull burn in Castiel’s neck that he thought, as Dean claimed his mouth over and over, would probably have been severely uncomfortable if he were human.

“Cass.”

Castiel opened his eyes. Dean’s voice was throaty, introspective; the practiced seducer from just seconds before was gone.

“You know that time I was on top of you in the parking lot?”

“Yes. You told me I smelled good.”

“Yeah, you still do.” Dean’s fingers moved down Castiel’s back. “Were you…feeling something for me? Even then?”

“I was.” Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder, felt the warmth of his body through his soft wool robe. “I didn’t know what it was back then, but yes. I think I was already falling in love with you.”

A breath of disbelief tumbled out of Dean’s mouth. He gazed into Castiel’s eyes like a boy seeing fireworks in the night sky for the first time, all hope and wonder.

“Dean?”

Dean swallowed and blinked and rubbed the small of Castiel’s back.

“I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” he said.

“No, Dean.” Castiel lowered his head, pressed kisses to Dean’s forehead, his eyelids, his scratchy cheek, his lower lip. “This is perfect. This is how it should be. No Chuck, no monsters, no Heaven or Hell. Just you and me.”

“You and me,” Dean murmured, into Castiel’s mouth. “After all this time.”

Castiel hummed in response. He moved down Dean’s neck, pressing his lips to the lifeforce rushing just below his skin. Dean’s Adam’s apple bounced, and he dug his fingers into Castiel’s waist suddenly.

“Stay here tonight,” Dean breathed.

Castiel pushed himself up onto his elbow. “Of course, Dean. I’ll watch over you from the corner.”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

Castiel smiled. “I couldn’t resist.”

“We don’t have to—” Dean flicked Castiel’s tie, glanced at his belt buckle. “If you don’t want to. I just need you here.”

Castiel nodded. Notwithstanding the bulge tenting his slacks, he slid from the bed as elegantly as he could manage and pulled Dean up with him.

“I’ll get you some PJs,” Dean said, from his dresser.

“Why?”

“Because they’re more comfortable.” He tossed him a black T-shirt and pajama bottoms with a cheeseburger pattern.

“I doubt I’ll notice any difference.”

“More comfortable for _me_.” Dean simpered. “I don’t want to be rubbing up against a trench coat all night.”

“I see.” Castiel shrugged off his coat, folded it neatly over Dean’s chair, and lay his suit jacket on top of it. “Oh. Should I change here, or would you prefer me to go to the bathroom and return?”

“Here’s good,” Dean said. “I’ll even help you.”

He loosened Castiel’s tie, undid his cuffs and shirt buttons, and unlooped his belt. Even though he unsubtly fondled the front of Castiel’s pants as he worked, the undressing was slow, deliberate, worshipful; the fever of hurtling into each other had broken, at least for a few minutes. His hands were reverent on Castiel's bare skin, and there was even a tinge of melancholy in the celadon of his eyes—he was thinking of the years they’d never have, perhaps, or else an old hurt had reared its head after a long quiescence. Dean was layers upon layers of loud contradictions and quiet revelations: erotic need, nurturing ministrations, molten wrath, terrible fragility—sometimes all in the same gesture. Castiel wanted to fall into him irrevocably and learn them all.

“There,” Dean said, once Castiel was in the pajamas. He hung his robe on his wardrobe door, then closed the lid of his laptop and switched off his desk lamp. The dim light on his nightstand served as the room’s only source of illumination.

“Dean,” Castiel said, as he watched Dean pull back the covers for them. “Thank you.”

Dean peered at him. “For what?”

“For loving me. For letting me love you. I’ve existed since the dawn of creation, yet it wasn’t until you that I truly lived.”

Dean drew in a shaky breath. He fluffed the two pillows at the head of the bed.

“Damn, Cass. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Well, it’s the truth.”

Dean sat down on his side of the bed. He patted the mattress beside him. Castiel crawled under the covers, reached his toes down into the cold, looked up at Dean from the pillow. Dean’s eyes crinkled, and for a moment Castiel thought he was about to blink away tears or crack an insensitive joke or both. Instead, he joined Castiel beneath the sheets, clicked the light off, and straightened out the duvet.

“Already warm,” Dean noted. “That’s right, I remember how hot you are now.”

“Is it uncomfortable?”

“No, not at all.” Dean nudged into him. “It’s awesome.”

Castiel squinted up at the ceiling. “Dean, where did this other pillow come from? I just remembered you only have one.”

“I, uh.” Dean laughed nervously. “I got it from your room earlier and brought it here. I kind of hoped tonight would go the way it did. Sorry for assuming.”

Castiel glanced over at him. In the pitch-black, he could feel more than see the flush on Dean’s cheeks.

“I forgot something, Dean. Before.” He hadn’t, of course: angels didn’t forget. He simply wanted to make Dean squirm a bit.

“Yeah?”

Castiel beckoned to Dean’s desk. His phone flew into his hands.

“I love when your eyes glow like that,” Dean said. “It’s sexy as hell.”

“Dean, as part of us being equals, I’d like to choose the music in the Impala sometimes.”

“Okay, now you’ve gone too far.”

“The first song I choose is ‘Love on Top’ by Beyoncé.”

Castiel pressed play. Dean groaned.

“Because you finally put my love on top, Dean.”

As Beyoncé ordered the beat in, Dean breathed resignation into Castiel’s shoulder.

“I guess I can’t say no now.”

Castiel let him seethe for a while longer before turning to him again. “I’m not serious, Dean. I know better than to get between you and your car.”

Dean snorted. “Just shut up and hold me, Cass.”

Castiel rolled onto his side; Dean pressed his back into Castiel’s chest, and their bodies aligned down to their knees. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean and pulled him in.

“And turn that racket off,” Dean grumped. Castiel obliged him, silencing his phone, setting it on the nightstand, and settling his hands at Dean’s waist again.

“Do you like this, Dean?” Castiel said, after they had lain together for a while. He kissed the nape of Dean’s neck once, twice.

“Mhm. You might like it more, though, based on how hard Little Cass is poking me.”

“Does that bother you? I’m not sure I can control it.”

“It doesn’t bother me, Cass.” He pushed his hips back, and a wave of pleasure shot up Castiel’s torso. “It’s sort of the point. Well, one of them, at least.”

“Dean.” Castiel cleared his throat softly. “What would you like to do?”

Dean rubbed his hand over Castiel’s. His voice came out dreamy, almost dazed. “Right now, Cass? Right now, I just want this.”

“Oh,” Castiel said. He was surprised to hear a twinge of disappointment in his voice.

“Don’t get me wrong, Cass. I want you. I want you so bad it aches sometimes. I want to do things to you that—” He broke off, and Castiel could feel, under his hands, a laugh building in Dean’s belly. “Let’s just say they’re things you probably wouldn’t want to tell the other angels about.”

Castiel kissed his neck again. “I didn’t think you’d be nervous.”

“It’s not that. Not just that.” Dean sighed contentedly. “This just feels good right now. You holding me.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do.”

They were quiet for a long time, matching the rhythm of their breaths in the darkness. Castiel, upon receiving silent encouragement from Dean’s hand, began to explore his body. He circled his fingertips around the tiny, ticklish hollow of Dean’s navel and the sparse patch of hair around it; then up his ribs, bottom to top, slotting his fingers in the grooves. He brushed his hand over Dean’s nipple, ripping a shiver from him and setting his heart underneath racing in Castiel’s grasp. Satisfied, Castiel returned his arm to Dean’s waist and relaxed into him again.

Dean finally spoke again, after so long that Castiel had begun to assume that he'd fallen asleep.

“Cass?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Did you really mean it when you said you felt alive for the first time when you met me?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t say such a thing lightly.”

“I just…I can’t get over it. That I’d be anything special to an angel. To an immortal being made by God himself.”

“I’ve lived for hundreds of millions of years and seen much, it’s true. But from the moment I touched your soul in Hades, something was different.”

“Different how?”

“I’m not sure I can describe it. It was just…more. In my time on Earth, I’d flown over the terraces of jasmine on the Tunis medina, soared through the clouds of burning sandalwood above the Zarathustrans’ fire temples. I’d walked among the tall clay vats of rose water evaporating in the desert sun of the Dasht-e Kavir; I’d spent autumn in the Kadisha Valley, when the seed cones of the cedars of Gilgamesh open up to the winds of the world. And yet, when I had you in my arms, when we rose up from the depths and you took your first breath, I knew then that nothing in Heaven or on Earth compared to you.”

Dean shuddered; he rolled onto his back. He sought Castiel’s lips, kissing him desperately, over and over, in the gap between their pillows. He clawed his arm between Castiel’s shoulder blades, and Castiel fell into him, intertwining their fingers, their legs, as Dean pulled him down, drinking the air from his lungs like it was cool water.

“That’s how I knew,” Castiel whispered, once Dean let him breathe again. “That’s how I knew we were real, you and I. Why nothing could ever get me to leave you. Why I always come back to you, Dean.”

“Cass,” Dean gasped. He reached lower, grabbing at Castiel’s pajamas hard enough to smart the skin underneath, tearing them down his hips. “My god, Cass. Now. I need you.”

“Oh. Should I…?”

Dean flailed to his side. There was the sound of a drawer opening, and then Dean’s hands were on him, guiding him up and down his body, easing him over and along and inside hidden, sacred places that dizzied Castiel with awe. Dean splayed his legs clumsily, winced audibly, and he seemed self-conscious about it, mumbling that all of this was new to him, too, when Castiel slowed his movements and asked if he was okay. Hot, electric sensations, at once carnal and sublime, etched themselves on Castiel’s mind in burning gold, and the names of the prophets and the commandments of Heaven seemed impossibly gray and dull in comparison.

It was over in only a few minutes. Castiel was first, and he only realized what had happened partway through; was only sure of it from Dean’s reaction. Dean took his hand, showed him how to bring him to climax, and after that Castiel lay his head on Dean’s heart and said he would pace himself better next time. Dean laughed and said they were basically a couple of virgins, after all. He kissed the top of Castiel’s head and said they had nothing but time.

* * *

He found him, a while later, on the lake.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Castiel said, from a few feet back.

Dean glanced over his shoulder. He was in the middle of tying knots around the empty spool of a fishing rod, an activity at which he was apparently so practiced that he could manage it without looking. At least, that was how it worked in his dreams.

“Mind?” Dean quirked an eyebrow. “Get over here.”

Castiel walked to the end of the dock. Dean pulled him in by the waist, nuzzled his cheek, and showed him how to wind the line around the spool evenly. The sun blazed down on them as Dean flicked his wrist over and over, practicing his cast.

“I’ve been back in this dream a few times over the years,” Dean said, once he’d finally sent the fly onto the water. “After you wiped my memory, I mean.”

Castiel nodded.

“It always felt like something was missing. I just never knew it was you. I’m damn happy it’s you.”

Castiel stroked Dean’s neck, kissed the beads of sweat on his temple. They talked by the lake until the sun was low in the sky. Dean told stories about big fish and family vacations and high school romances, and Castiel told him tales of jasmine blossoms on narrow streets, of sanctified fire, of dry wind over crushed rose petals, of ancient cedars whose arms reached up defiantly from the Earth, joining it to Heaven.

* * *

When Dean stirred, he was still in Castiel’s arms. Castiel could tell that he was awake from the tensing of his muscles, the bare skin flexing and stretching against his own. After they had finished last night, Dean had left off all his clothing but his underwear, on account of how hot Castiel made the bed.

“Morning,” Dean croaked. He reached across the bed and turned on the lamp.

“Good morning, Dean.”

Dean thrust his arm back under the warmth of the blanket. “You held me all night?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t your arm fall asleep with me on top of it?”

“No part of me falls asleep.”

“In that case, I think I just found my new favorite sleeping position.” Dean pressed his face into Castiel’s collarbone and breathed in. “What’d you do all night? When you weren’t in my dreams with me, that is.”

“I thought about the beautiful things in the universe. I listened to the few angels who remain in the world. I traveled through memories: some with you, others without.” He caressed Dean’s arm under the covers. “The rest of the time, I watched you sleep.”

Dean exhaled, his breath warm against the base of Castiel’s throat, and nestled into his chest.

“When my Mom tucked me into bed when I was little, she’d say that angels were watching over me. Was the last thing she said to me. Back then, I mean.”

Castiel soothed Dean’s back with his free hand. He knew that any story involving Mary was deeply meaningful to Dean, and he decided to simply let him talk.

“I hated that memory, you know. After I met the angels. After I knew their plan for us, for the world.” Dean shook his head. “Now, though—here, with you, after everything we’ve been through together—I guess she was right. I had an angel watching over me all along.”

Castiel kissed Dean’s forehead. “I love you, Dean.”

“And I love you.” Dean wriggled in his arms and peeked up at him. “Just don’t expect all this lovey-dovey crap in front of Sam and Jack. They’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

“I doubt they will regardless.”

“What do you mean?” Dean scowled. “They’re talking about us?”

“Dean, you confessed your feelings to me in front of them.”

“Still, it’s none of their business.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, and Dean, witnessing that, elbowed him in the ribs.

“Speaking of Sam and Jack, I heard them in the hallway shortly before you awoke. They’re probably already having breakfast, if you’d like to join them.”

“Yeah, okay. Have to tell them sometime.”

Dean hopped out of bed and began pulling on his pajamas and robe. As Castiel watched him dress, he thought about the thing he’d mulled over the most while Dean had slept, the only thing he hadn’t told him of: the sudden recovery of all his angelic powers.

He should have sensed something amiss when he’d beaten Jack in the race to Smith Center. His far greater experience notwithstanding, a seraph with depleted grace and a tenuous connection to an imprisoned God could never have bested even a normal Nephilim, much less the son of Lucifer. As it was, though, he had only begun to suspect that something strange was happening last night, in Dean’s bed, when he’d performed actions that used to strain him—telekinesis, dreamsharing—with no effort at all.

He had an inkling as to why this was happening, but wanted to confirm it before worrying Dean needlessly.

“Cass?”

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean gestured to the door. “You coming?”

Then again, they’d pledged to face everything together. That they wouldn’t keep secrets.

“Cass?” Dean said, concerned now. He sat at the foot of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Not wrong, exactly. But….”

“Tell me, Cass. Remember what we said last night.”

“I know.” Castiel cleared his throat. “Dean, you recall that, a while back, I told you about my powers failing.”

Dean’s eyes darted down and up Castiel’s body. “Yeah. Wait, are you feeling okay?”

“Better than okay. Dean, I feel completely restored. Like I did before Chuck turned away from us; before Metatron and the Fall, even.”

“So, like, full mojo?”

“Yes. I became certain of it when I entered your dream and remained there, effortlessly, for many hours. That’s something which would before have demanded more than a modicum of exertion.”

“Huh.” Dean scratched his head. “So, this is a good thing, right?”

“It depends on why it happened. But I have a suspicion about that.”

Dean’s smile faded. “Chuck?”

“Well, let’s have breakfast first.” Castiel yanked Dean upright and opened the door. “You look like you need coffee.”

“You’re not looking too chipper yourself, Mr. Bedhead.”

“Oh.” Castiel peered at himself in Dean’s mirror. “I’m not used to that.”

“Don’t worry.” Dean led the way into the corridor. “I like it.”

As they neared the galley, Castiel heard the familiar sounds: the clinking of spoons in cereal bowls, the grumbling of the coffeemaker, the staccato of Sam’s voice as he announced the news of the world to the room. Then something new: the neighing of a horse. Dean glanced back at him.

“Jack’s still playing that game,” Castiel said, and shrugged.

They walked through the doorway side by side. Sam and Jack looked up at them from the table—Sam with a grin that only grew wider and more ecstatic as his eyes moved over them, Jack with an expression that, while less arch, was still knowing.

“Morning, guys.” Sam was blushing. He rubbed his nose, seemingly to stifle a giggle.

“Morning,” Dean said, as he walked to the coffee. His voice was already deeper and rougher than it had been in the bedroom.

“Good morning Sam, Jack.” Castiel sat down at the head of the table. “Did you sleep well?”

Sam winked. “Did _you_ sleep well?”

“You know I don’t sleep, Sam.” Castiel tilted his head. “Why would you ask me that?”

“What about you, Dean?” Sam glanced across the kitchen. “Did you sleep well? Or was there, um, not much time for that?”

Dean lifted his mug from the counter and made his way to the table. He plunked down on the bench beside Sam.

“Uh, Earth to Dean? Can you hear me, or are you too blissed out for anything I’m saying to get through right now?”

“Shut it, Sammy.” Dean cleared his throat. “Just letting the two of you know, Cass and I decided last night to give things a go. So, you know, if you see me and him—”

“Peppering each other with butterfly kisses?”

“Dude, can you give it a rest for one minute? I’m trying to be serious here.”

“Sorry, Dean. But after putting up with you two all these years, I deserve to take a victory lap.”

Dean rolled his eyes and drank his coffee.

“So—” Jack put his phone down. “Does that mean you two are…lovers?”

“Yes,” Castiel said reluctantly. “Though I’m still not sure that’s my favorite term.”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t mind it. I kind of like ‘partners’ more, though. Like cowboys.”

“Well, lovers, partners, boyfriends, whatever—congratulations.” Sam stood up and beckoned to the two of them. “Come here.”

Sam pulled Dean and Castiel into a three-man hug, his long arms squeezing them tight.

“I’m so proud of you, Dean. Happy for you.” He kissed Dean’s cheek. “You too, Cass. CassDean is real.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Come here, Jack,” Sam said. “You too.”

Castiel felt Jack’s arm around him, and he moved from Sam’s shoulder to make room for Jack between the three of them.

“Sam, please. If you’re going to keep acting this sappy, at least let me get another cup of coffee.”

Sam sniffed as he released the three of them. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. I haven’t even had my first cup yet.”

The brothers walked to the other side of the kitchen together, and Castiel joined Jack on his bench at the table.

“Dean’s very happy,” Jack observed. “He loves you so much. I wonder if I’ll ever make someone feel that way.”

“Well, you already make me happy, Jack.”

“I didn’t mean that way, Dad.”

“I know.” Castiel smiled. “Jack, I need to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“You know that I’ve been weakening for the past year.”

“Your powers.”

“Yes.” Castiel turned to him. “Our race the other day, and then when I used my powers last night—I don’t feel myself weakening anymore.”

Jack nodded. His phone shook with the bleating of a lamb, and he glanced at it only for a second.

“Jack, is this because of you?”

“You were sick.” Jack looked down at his bowl of cereal. “So, I healed you. When the Empty was trying to take you.”

Castiel thought back to the confrontation at the gravesite, when Jack had picked him up from the dirt and pressed his hand to the side of his face; how he had knitted Castiel’s wounds back together, his touch like the first pink fingers of dawn after a long night.

“I see,” Castiel said. “I guess you let me win after all.”

Jack shrugged. “I love you, Castiel.”

Castiel pulled him into an embrace; Jack lay his head on his shoulder, poking his nose into Castiel’s neck. At the coffeemaker, Dean pushed Sam’s hand away, and Sam whispered something into Dean’s ear that made Dean go red. Time seemed to stall and watch and wait for the four of them, as if the greater logic of the realm of dreams had pierced reality just for a moment. Castiel closed his eyes and held Jack in his arms, listening to his breaths.

“Hey,” Dean was saying, and though it was only a few seconds later, Castiel felt dazed when he opened his eyes to the world again. “Everything good here?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. He patted Jack’s arm as Jack sat up again. “Everything’s perfect.”

“Good.” Dean stroked his thumb over Castiel’s nape. “What do you guys feel like doing today?”

Jack’s eyes lit up as he looked at Castiel.

“Well, Jack would like to go to the zoo,” Castiel said. “He’s been waiting very patiently since I ruined his last trip there.”

Sam returned to the table with his own mug of coffee. “Sounds good to me. Give me an hour; we can take the red car.”

“Wait, what? We can just take Baby.”

“Oh, now you want to go?”

“I like animals,” Dean protested.

“Yeah.” Sam clicked at his laptop. “I’m sure it’s the animals and not the fact that Cass is going.”

“Shut your cakehole, Sammy. Or it’ll be Metallica and Black Sabbath all the way to Wichita.”

Sam snorted. “Please work on his taste in music, Cass.”

“I’m not sure even I can help there.” Castiel rose from the table. “I should get dressed.”

“Hang on,” Dean said, following behind. “I’ll go with you.”

“That’s right, Dean,” Sam called after them. “Go dress your husband.”

“So annoying,” Dean muttered, once they were in the hall.

“He’s just excited.”

“Yeah, well, hopefully he’ll get bored before too long.” Dean opened the door for them. “How do you think that went?”

“Like I said, Dean. Everything’s perfect.”

Dean watched Castiel as he picked up and shook out each of his articles of clothing. “And what about the other thing? Your powers coming back?”

“I was right,” Castiel said. “It was Jack.”

“So, Jack changed your oil and gave you a fresh coat of paint?” Dean pursed his lips. “Good to be God’s dad, I guess.”

“Yes.” Castiel pulled at the hem of his T-shirt. “Dean, what should I do with your clothes? I’m going to get dressed now.”

Dean drained his cup, set it on the edge of his desk. He touched Castiel’s waist, lingering there as he circled around him to his front.

“Really? Because I was going to say, Sammy’s right. Maybe I _should_ dress you.”

“Oh.” Castiel dropped his hands to his side. “Very well. I didn’t know you’d enjoy doing that.”

“Not right now, though.” Dean grabbed the drawstrings of Castiel’s cheeseburger pajamas and tugged; Castiel stumbled into him. "In a little bit."

“Dean, I shouldn’t wait too long to get dressed. We have less than an hour before we’re supposed to be leaving.”

“Not too long,” Dean agreed. “Five minutes.”

His fingers reached into the waistband of Castiel’s boxers. Castiel was beginning to understand now.

“Five minutes?”

“You’re right.” Dean kissed the corner of his mouth; he smelled of coffee and bed sheets. “Let’s try for at least ten this time.”


	21. Going to California

The road from Tucumcari to Santa Fe was a gentle climb, rising from the Llano Estacado’s dry grassland into the juniper and sagebrush of the Sangre de Cristo foothills. Even for early June, the midday air was warm; high above the eastern horizon, the white-gold sun bathed the scrub in wilting heat. On the radio, the local classic rock station was playing number 228 of the 500 Greatest Songs of All Time, “Peaceful Easy Feeling.”

“This song,” Dean said, with a flicker of a smile. He glanced at the passenger seat before turning back to the sparse weekday traffic on the Old Santa Fe Trail, to its clay walls and azure windows. Lush cottonwoods and cypresses hung low overhead, shading his route to the old city.

Before he heard or saw him, he smelled him: the sweet relief of a lightning bolt in the thirsty desert air. The receipt from last night’s hotel room flittered in the gap between them as the sound of wings subsided.

Dean grinned at him, drank in the sight of him. All was right in the world.

“You took your time.”

“Jack wanted to show me some of the program he was watching,” Castiel cocked his head at the radio; the third verse was just beginning. “Is this…?”

“I get this feelin’ I may know you as a lover and a friend,” Dean belted out. The breeze ruffled his hair as the light at the Paseo de Peralta turned green.

Castiel smiled. “You remember this song.”

“All thanks to you,” Dean replied. “Anyway, what was that about Jack?”

“He wanted to show me a documentary about Hawaiian sea turtles.”

“Kid really likes animals.”

“Yes. Also, he’d like us all to take a trip to Hawaii once you and I get back from our vacation.”

Dean pretended to ponder this. “Okay, sure. As long as you fly me there. There’s no way I’m getting on a plane when I can ride you.”

“Please don’t say you can ride me. It makes me sound like a dromedary.”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know, Cass. Didn’t hear you complaining when I said it last—”

“Dean!” Castiel interrupted. His cheeks were reddening; Dean considered that an achievement. “May I finish my story?”

“I’m all about you finishing.” Dean winked. “What happened next?”

“After I talked to Jack, I ran into Sam on my way to your room.”

“Our room.”

“Our room,” Castiel said, accepting the correction. “He asked me to help him choose between a few different shirts for his and Jack’s trip to Kansas City tomorrow.”

“What, Sam did? They’re just going to a museum.”

“He mentioned that Eileen’s meeting them there. Apparently, she’s been living in St. Louis for the last few months.”

“Sammy, you sly dog.” Dean grinned with pride. “He never mentioned that part.”

“Well, perhaps he only heard from her after we left.”

“Yeah, right. More like he didn’t want me razzing him.”

Castiel pointed. “Stop, Dean. There’s a parking space.”

“I can hear him talking to her now.” Dean put his arm behind Castiel’s seat and backed into the space. “‘You know, I’m actually really into art.’ Oldest pick-up line in the damn book.”

“Line?” Castiel narrowed his eyes. “You said that to me the other day when I told you about the drawing class I want to take.”

Dean ran his tongue over his lips as he put the car in park. He waved dismissively.

“That’s different, Cass. I actually meant it.”

“Well, in any case,” Castiel said, not sounding entirely convinced. “I told him to wear the red plaid shirt. I think Sam looks good in red.”

“Huh.” Dean glanced at Castiel’s hands. “After all that, did you manage to find it?”

“Of course.” Castiel pulled the cassette tape out of his pocket. “It was in the drawer of my nightstand. I told you I knew where it was.”

“Alright, we’ll listen to it when we hit the road again tomorrow. Stick it in the glove compartment.”

Castiel got out of the car, and Dean joined him on the sidewalk. “I think it was silly to make me fly all the way back there just to get that.”

“And I think it’s silly that you didn’t recognize the intro to ‘Going to California,’” Dean retorted, as he counted out change for the parking meter.

“So, for that, I’m to be punished.”

“Listening to the mixtape I made you isn’t a punishment, Cass. Don’t be such a baby.” Dean looked up from the coins in his hand. “You’re not actually mad, are you?”

“Of course not,” Castiel said, with a slight tilt of his head, a slight smile. “Do you have enough?”

“Enough for four hours. That should be good for lunch and that art gallery, right?”

“And the San Miguel Mission,” Castiel said. “But yes.”

“We have to go to church?”

“I just want to look at it; we don’t have to stay long.”

Dean filled the parking meter. They passed under a low wooden arcade festooned with ristras, then cut through a green-tiled alley to reach the Café Sonámbulo.

“ _Buenos días, señores,_ ” said the server.

“Table for two,” Dean replied. She led them to the corner booth, the open window. Dean, picking up the menus, ordered right then and there, explaining that he’d been here more times than he could count.

“Okay, while they’re making the food, let’s go over the rest of our itinerary.” Dean yanked several maps from his back pocket.

“Oh,” Castiel said. “I thought you’d left those in the car.”

“We figured out everything in New Mexico, Colorado, and Utah,” Dean said, choosing to ignore Castiel’s teasing. “So, Arizona and California. Now, I know you groaned about this before, but I still want to go to Tombstone.”

“Dean, I don’t mind going to Tombstone. I just don’t want to dress up in a period costume with you when we get there.”

“Western wear isn’t a costume,” Dean snapped. “There’re plenty of cowboys still around.”

“Well, whether it’s a costume or not, I forgot to pack the outfit you picked out for me. Although….” Castiel sighed. “I suppose I could go back for it if you really want me to.”

“No need, Cass. It’s in my bag. I packed it for you.”

“Oh.” Castiel blinked. “Thank you, Dean. How considerate.”

The server brought the food. Dean, feeling like the cat that got the cream, smirked at Castiel until she left.

“Very well, Dean. If I dress up like a cowboy for you, that means you have to come to the hot-air balloon festival with me in Temecula.”

“I already said I’d do that.” Dean bit into one of his steak tacos.

“And we can go on a balloon ride together?”

Dean gulped down the bite. “Uh. Can I keep my eyes closed the whole time?”

“No.” It was Castiel’s turn to smirk.

“Fine, okay. But I don’t want to hear any complaining from you when I hurl in the basket.”

“I’m sure you won’t, Dean. Who knows, you may actually enjoy it.”

Castiel sat back and gazed at the street. Though his eyes followed the people passing by on the sidewalk, he seemed far-off, like his thoughts were dwelling on a different time. He’d always seemed the most human when he was like this—doubting, questioning, reminiscing, longing. Long ago, right at the start, Dean had felt smug about provoking those emotions in his guardian angel. That stopped right quick when he realized, one night at the bottom of a whiskey bottle in Indiana, that Castiel was making him feel the same things.

“We’re compromising, Dean.” Castiel turned back to him, crinkling his eyes. “It’s good.”

Dean started on his second taco. “Well, you know me, Cass. I’ll do anything if it means I get to dress up like a cowboy.”

After Dean finished his lunch, they walked along the outside of the plaza, weaving their way through the throngs of tourists, and traveled the few blocks to the old church that Castiel wanted to see. It was a small, low adobe building that was even smaller inside, with bright white walls and log beams across the ceiling that reminded Dean of the bars of a cage. In the forecourt, Castiel stopped abruptly and was motionless for a long time. He stared up at the cross above the bell tower, or maybe at the blue sky behind it, and Dean sat on a bench surrounded by pink pansies and waited for him to be ready. When they returned to the street, Castiel seemed wistful again. Dean didn’t ask him what he was thinking about. He figured that he’d be the one to bring it up if he wanted to talk about it.

They spent the hottest hours of the day within the climate-controlled embrace of the museum. Castiel stood for a long time at each painting, posing questions to Dean that he at first answered with anatomical jokes, then eventually took more seriously. In the gallery’s final room, Castiel’s phone vibrated, confirming his registration for the summer art course at the community college. He purchased a book of drawing paper and a selection of pencils from the gift shop.

“I can really see you as an artist,” Dean said, once they’d retrieved the Impala. “You’re pretty good with your hands, for one.”

“I assume you mean my skill with my angel blade.”

“Yeah, your angel blade. You really know how to use that thing.”

Dean signaled for the turn into their hotel. Castiel rolled his eyes.

“You’re talking about penises again.”

“I’m talking about angel blades, Cass. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

Castiel sighed. “Sometimes I wonder why I couldn’t have fallen for the mature brother.”

They checked in and rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Their room was long, with white fir furniture and a turned-down bedspread the color of dried chili peppers, and opened up to a private balcony with a view of the mountains. Because it was on the east-facing side of the hotel, the late afternoon lit it dimly.

“Oh, baby,” Dean groaned, as he fell back into the bed. “This sure beats a motel.”

Castiel opened the door to the balcony. “Why don’t you rest until dinner? You’ve been driving and walking all day.”

“I might just do that. Don’t let me sleep too long, though.”

He woke up, refreshed, half an hour later. Castiel had done all the unpacking; he’d even neatly laid out Dean’s toiletries on the bathroom vanity. They shared the sink as they washed before dinner, and Dean planted a wet kiss on Castiel’s cheek before drying his face with a towel.

The sun had just started to set when they drove out to a different quarter of the city. They found their dinner at a strip mall taqueria and ate at a plastic table at the edge of the parking lot, under the purple twilight and the dangling branches of the desert willows. At some point, Dean challenged Castiel to a game of identifying the freakish silhouettes standing sentinel over the perimeter of the antique store across the street. They returned to the car without checking if any of their guesses had been correct, but Dean said that Castiel, with his superhuman senses, had to have won.

“Cass,” Dean said, later in the evening. “Hold my hand.”

They were walking down Canyon Road, meandering through its bars and galleries. The Impala was safely stowed for the night in the hotel parking lot, so Dean was buoyant with drink.

“You don’t feel self-conscious?” Castiel said, after he’d taken his hand.

“Nope,” Dean announced, loud enough for a passing couple to glance at them. “I just feel glowy. That tequila, man.”

Castiel held him steady as they strolled beneath the overflowing trellises of virgin’s bower and the soft yellow lanternlight. When the buildings thinned out and the road ended, he held him close in the dark, under the stars, until the streetlamps of the hotel came into view again.

It was past midnight when they got back; the hours had slipped by unnoticed. Dean leaned his entire chest into Castiel’s shoulder on the elevator ride and rebuffed him grumpily when he suggested he could carry him. Castiel picked him up anyway.

“This is humiliating,” Dean muttered. “But also kind of nice.”

Castiel had Dean get the door with his key card, then set him down gently in front of the sink. He brought him his pajamas and placed them on the counter as Dean brushed his teeth. Dean grinned at the mirror stupidly as he undressed, thinking in tight circles about all the ways his life had changed. The thing he still couldn’t get over was how sudden it had been and yet how natural it felt.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Castiel was already under the covers. The muscles of his neck and bare chest tensed with concentration as he dragged a thick black pencil over the sketchbook on his lap.

“How’s the drawing going?” Dean said, as he crawled into bed.

Castiel showed him the page, which only had a few schematic lines running north and south, west and east. “I’m just starting.”

“What is it?”

“It’s going to be a portrait. I thought I’d draw the people I’ve known. Angels, humans, some demons and monsters, maybe. The ones who aren’t here anymore.” He frowned at the page. “But faces are hard. I hope the art class helps.”

“You’ll do great,” Dean said. “I know you will.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel lay the sketchbook down again and turned to him. “How did you like the second day of our vacation?”

“Well, let’s see. I had grilled meat for lunch, spent my afternoon at a museum filled with paintings of vagina flowers, and now I’m in bed with my smoking hot boyfriend. I’d say today pretty much hit all my interests.”

Castiel patted his forearm. “I’m glad.”

“You mind if I watch TV?” Dean reached for the remote. “Or will that ruin your focus?”

“Go ahead,” Castiel said. He traced another long line—still careful, but thicker, surer. Dean wanted to think that it was because of his encouragement. After so many years of tearing down Castiel’s confidence, he needed to be the one to build it up again, brick by meticulous brick.

He drifted off a short time later, partway through an episode of _Hawaii Five-O_. It was the first night since getting together that they’d gone to bed and he’d simply slept. When Dean awoke in the middle of the night to a juicer infomercial on the television, he noted this to himself with none of the disappointment he’d anticipated. The scent of Castiel’s skin, the solidity of his body underneath Dean’s crosswise arm, was enough for him.

“Did I wake you?” Castiel’s pencil paused. “Should I turn off my light?”

“No,” Dean mumbled. He kissed Castiel’s arm. “Keep drawing, baby.”

He fell asleep again. He dreamt. He fished on the lake, he had a beer by the cabin’s fireplace, he even went nightswimming off the coast of Hawaii. Castiel didn’t come, and Dean didn’t expect him to. He was probably still battling with the curve of an ear, the shading of a lip, the arch of an eyebrow.

The lamp was off when Dean woke up again. Castiel’s side of the bed was cold, and when Dean reached out his fingers for him, all he felt was air.

Dean’s eyes shot open. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 5:50; the walls of the room were a pale lavender. He sat upright and threw off the sheets in panic. A few seconds passed like this, his body paralyzed and his mind dredging up every awful scenario it could contemplate, before he collected himself enough to look around the room.

Castiel was sitting on the balcony. Dean could see the back of his head through the glass door. He stumbled from the bed, stretched his neck side to side as he crossed the long room, and breathed.

 _He’s here_ , Dean thought, as he watched Castiel through the gap between the curtains. The pink light of morning played over his slender wrists, his crossed legs, his bare ankles. _He’s safe._

He slid open the door and stepped out. The sun was only just peeking over the painted foothills, and the cold morning air stung.

Castiel smiled without looking up. “Good morning, my love.”

“Morning, sunshine.” Dean scratched his armpit through his thin cotton shirt. “You been up for a while?”

Castiel’s pencil paused. He turned to Dean.

“Up as in not in bed. Not as in asleep. I know you don’t sleep.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.” His hand moved again. “When I saw the dawn coming over the mountains, I was inspired to come out here and draw. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“No, don’t apologize. I just like waking up next to you, that’s all.” Dean crashed down beside him on the wicker couch, causing Castiel’s pencil to scrawl a thick, discordant line perpendicular to the neck he’d been shading. Castiel placed his pencil on the table calmly, picked up his eraser, and smudged away the mark.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m clumsy before I’ve had my coffee.”

Castiel exchanged his eraser for his pencil again and kissed Dean’s cheek. “I ordered it for you already. They should be bringing it up.”

“You’re awesome. You know that?”

“I know.” Castiel looked at Dean’s bare arms. “Are you cold? You have goosebumps.”

“A little,” Dean admitted. He nudged closer to him. “I’ll be fine once the coffee comes. And if I sit right next to you.”

There was a knock on the door—muted, since it was still so early—and Dean got up. He dug in his wallet for a few singles, squinted a smile at the waiter, and flopped down beside Castiel again with the tray. He made sure not to jostle the couch this time.

“Dean,” Castiel said, once Dean had settled into him and raised his mug to his lips. “I have to tell you something. I saw Chuck last night.”

Dean gulped down his coffee. It was strong and still hot enough to prickle his throat. “What?”

“Chuck. While you slept, I went to visit him in his place of captivity. I wanted him to know about you and me.”

“You should’ve told me,” Dean said, sitting up. “What if something had happened to you?”

“I didn’t want to disturb your rest. And Chuck is powerless. His cage is bound by the seals of Billie, Amara, and Jack; all three would have to die for him to be freed.”

“Still. Tell me next time. If something’s bothering you, I’d rather be woken up.”

“Very well, Dean. I’ll do that in the future.”

“So.” Dean leaned into Castiel again. “You told Chuck about us, huh? Do we have Daddy’s blessing?”

“That’s not why I went. I don’t care what he thinks about you and me.”

“Oh. What, then?”

Castiel looked down at his sketchbook for a while before responding. His left thumb traced the side of the page.

“When we went to the chapel yesterday, something was bothering me. My father—he’s all-knowing. Past, present, future. Nothing we did, up to the very point we shut him away, could have been a surprise to him. And maybe it was all part of his grand story and he allowed himself to be imprisoned for some reason unfathomable to us; he works in mysterious ways, after all. But even if he intended all that to happen, what would be the point of you and me? Why did he create me to feel the way I do, to feel the things I do for you? What purpose did that serve in his story?”

He raised his pencil again and began filling in the portrait’s hairline.

“The thought had crossed my mind before,” Castiel said. “But something about being at that chapel yesterday and feeling the grace that still resonates there, midway through a day with you that was perfect bliss—I just had to know, Dean. I had to know what the point of it all was.”

Dean topped off his coffee as he thought about what to say.

“Cass, he can’t be the reason we got together. He was already in the cage when that happened.”

“I know,” Castiel said. He turned the sketchbook to shade the portrait’s ear. “I know we’re real, Dean. Chuck may have been the one who threw us at each other in the beginning, but in the end, it was only us. We beat him. We chose each other.”

“So….” Dean pursed his lips. “Why’d you go to him? What’d you even talk about?”

“I stood at the bars of his cage; he was sitting at his desk, behind a typewriter, surrounded by notebooks. I told him about you and me. He looked up at me with that look—you know, those sensitive eyes that make you think he’s benevolent—and said that he was happy for us, truly.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. I hope you didn’t buy that crap.”

“Of course not. Not just like that, at least.” Castiel flicked little streaks of hair along the portrait’s temple. “After that, I just came out with what I wanted to know. I asked him how much of what grew between you and I was a seed he’d planted. And how much was us outgrowing the story he’d written.”

“Sounds to me like you had a crisis of faith.”

“No, Dean.” Castiel turned to him. “I’ve never stopped believing in us. And nothing Chuck said would have changed how I feel about you. I simply felt like he owed me some answers after everything he put us through.”

Dean sipped his coffee. “Alright. So, what’d he say?”

“He made me wait for a little while. Told me about the manuscript he was working on. Eventually, I brought him back to the topic, asked him my question again. He shrugged and said he’d never had much of a knack for writing romance; ‘I mean, look at Sam and Dean’s love lives’ were his exact words.”

“Ouch.”

“I pressed him. I asked him to be direct: did he write us, or did we write ourselves?” Castiel started shading the background of the page. “He said that he wished he had. He said us falling in love was a great story.”

Dean looked at Castiel’s profile. “Do you believe him?”

“I do. He has no reason to lie now. Besides, I know what’s true. I just wanted to hear him say it.”

“Huh.” Dean reached for the French press, emptied the rest of it into his mug.

“For some reason, I became angry with him then. I shouted at him; I said he was a terrible father. I told him I was ashamed of him.” Castiel shook his head. “He just sat there and took it.”

“I’m sure you’re not the first kid who’s said that to his dad, Cass.”

“Before I left, I asked him what the point of everything he’d done was. But he wouldn’t say. He just said that it was up to us now to make it all matter.”

“So basically, he was being the same weaselly asshole he’s always been.”

“Yes.”

Castiel looked up at the sunrise. For a moment, Dean thought he had finished talking.

“The last thing he said to me—it was a question. He asked me to describe meeting you. What it was like to fall in love with you. I told him. I don’t know why I humored him; because I’m proud that I fell in love with you, I suppose.”

“Well, now I have to hear what you told him.”

“I said that it was like waking up. I’d been sleepwalking through my existence for so, so long. But then I found you, raised you, met you; and angels don’t sleep, but it was like opening my eyes after the longest dream and seeing what was real for the first time.”

Dean drank the rest of his coffee. In the ochre hills that rose up around the hotel, the firs and mesquites and piñons trembled in the morning wind.

“What’d he say to that?” Dean said.

Castiel held out his sketchbook, angling it into the orange light and away from it. “He said he’d be sure to use that line in his next novel.”

Dean fluttered his lips. “What a dick.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t listen to him.” Dean set his empty mug down. “He can’t do anything to us now.”

“I know. Anyway, that’s when I returned here. I opened my eyes in our hotel bed; you were still sleeping next to me, your arm exactly where it’d been when I left. You looked so peaceful, so serene. Over the mountains outside our window, dawn was breaking. And I just felt—” Castiel’s hands went still; he had found where the light hit the drawing perfectly, Dean assumed. “I felt like everything was right in the world.”

Dean rested his chin on Castiel’s shoulder. He stroked his arm.

“That’s pretty good,” Dean said. He nodded at the drawing.

“What? Oh. You really think so?”

“Self-portrait?”

“It isn’t me,” Castiel said. “It’s Jimmy.”

“Oh. Well, I was close.”

Castiel rubbed his thumb over Jimmy’s cheek. “I decided to draw him first. He deserves that. After I have more practice, I’ll come back and draw him again.”

“He was your friend,” Dean said.

“He deserved so much better, Dean. I told him he’d have his life back after we’d won. After we’d brought peace to the world. I only wish he were here to see it.”

The sun had almost crested the mountains now; the shadows of the trees and shrubs and boulders already looked smaller, sharper. Dean wrapped his arm around Castiel’s waist. He wanted to comfort him, even if he wasn’t sure how.

“Like you said, we ran our own race; we made our own moves.”

Castiel laughed. “I recall you not really buying that. Saying everything was a lie; that everything we’ve lost is because of Chuck. And you weren’t entirely wrong. Jimmy didn’t have to die. None of them had to die.”

“I don’t know. I was wrong about some of it. We haven’t lost everything, and not everything was a lie. The two of us? You heard it from the horse’s mouth, Cass: we’re real. And we’re still here.”

Castiel breathed. He held the picture of Jimmy up to the light again, looked at it for a moment, and set it down on the table beside Dean’s coffee tray.

“You’re right, Dean.”

“Of course I am. I’m quoting you.”

Castiel patted Dean’s thigh. “I’m sorry for making you talk about feelings this early.”

“Hey, we all have days like that.” Dean sat back into the corner of the love seat and pulled Castiel towards him. “You going to be okay to hit the road today, or you want to stay longer?”

“I’m fine, Dean. Thank you for asking.” Castiel lay his head on Dean’s shoulder. “We have an entire trip to look forward to.”

It was a prosaic statement of fact, but it felt electrically charged, alive with meaning. Dean thought about the road ahead: the stubborn pout Castiel would wear at Tombstone, his ridiculous accent; the balloon over Temecula, his eyes shut tight for Castiel to coax open with his sweet words. He thought about the faces he’d pull in their photographs from the rim of the Grand Canyon and the kiss he’d yank Castiel into under the palm trees of Santa Monica. He thought about the mixtape in the Impala’s glove compartment, about the first twelve tracks playing over the ramble of the highway underneath their tires and the whipping of the wind through their open windows. He thought about “Going to California” fading in at the end of it all, cathartic and meditative, as they followed the sun west to the ocean.

“When do we have to check out?” Castiel said.

He’d never thought much about the next day. With the life he led, it just didn’t seem possible. Too much like faith. Like hope. Now, though, he found himself thinking about the future all the time. So much that he kept having to stop and breathe and remind himself to live in the moment.

“Not for hours.” Dean gazed up at the wispy clouds above the mountains, the fading moon, the stars winking away in the copper and gold sky. “And you know what? That’s perfect. The world’s safe; Sam’s safe. I have my angel next to me. All my dreams came true. And right now, all I want to do is soak it in and watch the sunrise.”

“That sounds perfect, Dean.”

It was all new to him, having hope for tomorrow. And Castiel was right. They had their entire trip to look forward to, and the day was just beginning.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, after six and a half months, this story is finally finished. It’s imperfect: the prose could be cleaner, the narrative tighter, the characterization more consistent. But it’s out in the world now, and an imperfect thing that can bring joy and satisfaction to someone else is incomparably superior to a perfect thing that only exists in my own head. I set out to tell the canonical story of Castiel and Dean falling in love, getting together, and having a happy ending after the show, and I think I did that. If you’re reading this, thank you for coming along for the ride. I’d love to hear what you thought of the journey.
> 
> A note on the music used for the chapter titles. I tried to choose songs that were 1) appropriate to the setting/characters, 2) had titles that echoed the central problem or theme of the chapter, and 3) had lyrics that possessed some storytelling value (often an ironic one). Some were mainly useful for their titles (“Just What I Needed,” “Dreams”), their lyrics (“N.I.B.”), or a specific, idiosyncratic scene (“Tupelo Honey”). Others, like “Comfortably Numb,” “All My Little Words,” and “Going to California” hit two of the three criteria very well, while still others satisfied all three (e.g. “Peaceful Easy Feeling,” “Bargain,” “Love on Top”). If you’re curious about any of the songs, I created [a YouTube playlist](http://www.youtube.com/watch_videos?video_ids=NjofshOBV5s,uFNK-9A2VRo,naOzftxOKig,6HFS0RMLFeg,haCOU64qCo4,5gGjfJHu9wI,QocXrEcpWpU,CqnU_sJ8V-E,XecDz-o-KnY,1ZQbJ73GgZ8,x-xTttimcNk,1uQFlNa1Dk0,MWTzHHoySaI,SIhb-kNvL6M,tKJwvQfraY8,hwt9Yq6CVSY,v6O5slQFFhc,QGkQ4mPiyoU,EQ96WIEcoDg,n0R5uUEjjCk,PDIz4talyQk) of all 21. It’s YouTube because, yes, the out of print Bob Seger album Dean quotes to Castiel in Chapter 19 is actually out of print, and therefore not on Spotify.
> 
> Finally, you should know that I haven’t fully closed the book on what I’ve created here. I’ve written a few things set in the same universe/timeline, including one that takes place only a few weeks after Dean and Castiel watch the sunrise in Santa Fe. No timetable, but I hope to put it up eventually. Until then, all the best to you.


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